


Alone In The Night But Darling It'll Be Okay (Someday)

by tommythedankengine



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Dallon is an emo chap, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ryden, Slow Burn, Sorry for the ending, Spallon - Freeform, Suicide, brallon, flower shop au, hints of past ryan/spencer, there's a surprising amount of crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommythedankengine/pseuds/tommythedankengine
Summary: Adrenaline was pouring through his veins as he saw Brendon’s body. He was sprawled out on the concrete floor, blood leaking out of his nose, back of the head, and various other parts of his body. Dallon was beginning to hyperventilate, gripping his chest in pain. He moved to look up the stairs, in case Ryan was up there, and only caught the hint of movement.Ryan had fled.Pure anger coursed through Dallon. He wanted to sprint after that snake, but knew that he had to help Brendon. With shaking hands, Dallon called 9-1-1.





	1. A Bittersweet New Year's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> MORE WRITING I KNOW. this wasn't supposed to be chaptered, by here I am. hopefully it will be updated. I kind of really like the basis, so I hope it takes off. 
> 
> please please please let me know if you like it and please give me ideas of where to go!

The night was bitterly cold, which wasn’t unexpected for this time of year. Dallon wrapped his coat tighter around his thin, slightly pudgy frame, trying to fight against the whipping winds. They were like icy knives, burning his already-red cheeks; he shook in a primitive attempt to warm himself up. Despite being unable to see his nose, he knew that it was a cherry red.

Above him, stars twinkled almost mockingly at him, reminding him of how lonely and pathetic he was. Dallon didn’t disagree with their silent taunts.

Dallon continued to walk briskly down the eerie, empty town streets. No lights were on in any of the houses, which he deemed odd. Normally this part of town was popping with parties, or drunken young adults if it was late enough. In the distance, though, Dallon could hear the faint honking of car horns and the chatter of thousands of people streaming downtown.

He felt alone. He  _was_  alone in these unfamiliar streets, in this unfamiliar city. Not that he could do much about it; he was almost unrecognizable to even himself.

All he wanted to do was spend New Year’s Eve alone in his apartment. He wanted to watch the happy people in Time’s Square celebrating the passing of another year. He wanted to dance by himself to his favorite songs, humming under his breath as he sways, imagining maybe another person to hold tightly and never let go. Although, it’s not like there was anyone in this Godforsaken city that gives a single damn about how he feels. Not just about looking like they  _may_  have friends, or to put him in a pitying light. (Which he despised. He  _didn’t_  need pity. He was okay.)

But,  _no_. He had to be dragged out by his coworker to a New Year’s Eve party that he wanted nothing less than to attend. Any of his attempts to get out of it were thwarted by some conveniently-placed job threats (or manipulations, as he called it multiple times). Needless to say, he had an atrocious time. He spent most of the party in the bathroom, panicking, trying to force air into his unresponsive lungs. He cursed his anxiety and general dislike of crowds. It’s not like he  _hated_  people, per se, he just liked to have control over the situation, and control was what he definitely lacked then.

(Not that he doesn’t believe that boys shouldn’t cry, but he was embarrassed to admit that there was also some tears while he was in the bathroom. He was mostly embarrassed by  _why_  he was crying, since it was so dumb. He hated himself for it.)

In general, he held an obvious aversion for parties. He was glad that he had found the chance to escape when he did, even if the door had spit him onto a completely new street. He didn’t remember it on the way there, but he didn’t panic, since he was alone. He could finally breathe. Being on a foreign street was no issue given that they were in an age of technology and his phone was readily available for a quick search.

Dallon paused on his walk home to check his phone, which had buzzed. It was just a text from Brent—his manipulative coworker—asking him where he was. Dallon didn’t respond; it’s not like Brent cared about him, and it’s not the end of the world that he left. He’ll just let him know on Monday that he needed air. Maybe that’ll be an “approved” excuse to have left. Dallon honestly didn’t care.

He noticed the time, 11:30 PM. Almost the New Year, not that it mattered all that much to Dallon. Another year, another set of bland days that have little meaning. 100 could pass before he took note of it, minus the odd exciting event or project for him.

Dallon shook his head and checked the GPS map. Good, he was maybe a 5 minute walk from his building. The air seemed to become colder every increasing minute, biting at any exposed skin; he was afraid that he might get hypothermia, but shoved that out of his mind. Not important.

He continued to walk, shoving his phone deep into his jacket pockets. He hadn’t made it maybe 10 long strides when he stopped again, running a hand threw his floppy hair. His breath made white puffs, which stood out in the inky blackness of the street. He leaned towards either side of the street, listening out for the sound of… something that he could subtly pick out. It sounded like crying, but Dallon was unsure of the source or cause. He glanced left and right down the streets—across the various townhouse steps and business fronts, but he found no one. If they were there, they were great of hiding, or Dallon was blind.

Dallon took another step in the direction he was hearing the crying, which got louder over the rustling of his jackets and jeans. The source let out a gasping sob and Dallon felt his icy (similar to the temperature) heart clench in emotional compassion. Whomever was crying seemed to be in extreme emotional pain, and Dallon—regardless of detesting pity—felt some semblance of pity to them. He wasn’t heartless.

He peered left and—aha! —spotted the origin of the crying. Dallon stepped to face them, scanning the shaking figure. A younger-looking man (well, at least, younger than Dallon’s 27) was sprawled out on the steps of a local flower shop. From what he could tell, there was an apartment on the top of the shop, signaling that there was someone living there.

The kid wasn’t wearing much—a thin hoodie over a tee shirt and a pair of skin-tight jeans. No wonder he was shaking. Dallon couldn’t see his face too well, but he knew that it was as red as his was. Probably worse, if he was being honest, since he was sobbing and the tears would make it worse. Dallon idly wondered why he was crying.

The man still didn’t notice Dallon awkwardly standing behind him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Dallon decided to take the plunge and stepped closer, clearing his throat to alert the man. “Excuse me?” Dallon asked timidly, curling his hand into a tight ball. The man, still crying grossly, didn’t respond verbally. He only drew closer onto himself, trying to shield himself from Dallon. “Sir?” he tried again.

Several heartbeats. “’M okay,” the man rasped, not moving another inch. “’M fine, s-sir.” There was obvious pain embedded in this man’s lie. Dallon’s heart ached; he didn’t realize that that’s how he sounded to others, saying he was fine when it was apparent to even the most oblivious people that he wasn’t. “P-Please g-go away,” he mumbled.

Dallon didn’t leave, but he didn’t take a step closer. “No,” he said swiftly. “Sir, you’re not okay.” Dallon was unsure of what to do—it’s not like they were any sort of acquaintances and he could just  _give_  them a hug. He shut his eyes tightly, wishing that he was anywhere but here. “I’m Dallon Weekes,” he tried again, speaking slowly. “Why are you out here?”

Taking another risk, Dallon took a prompt step forward and warily laid a hand on the man’s shaking shoulder. The man froze—still shaking involuntarily—at the touch. He seemed to want to flinch, but his current condition (crying and half frozen on a doorstep in December) wouldn’t allow him.

The man let out a whimper and lifted his head, turning to face Dallon. Dallon was almost taken aback at his state—his face ( _He’s pretty,_  Dallon thought, once gaining a full view.) was marred by puffiness and redness. Tears were frozen to his red cheeks and his long eyelashes were clumped together. His face sparkled. The man, although facing Dallon, wouldn’t meet his eyes. Dallon wasn’t surprised—he was the same way. The idea of making eye contact with another man after being found sobbing his eyes out was inconceivable. Dallon wanted to help him, though. He wasn’t sure how.

The man was making consistent eye contact with the plant pot directly to Dallon’s left. Tears steadily dripped down his face, falling onto his jeans, which were already damp and freezing. He shook harder. Dallon wanted to engulf him in a hug but held back. He wasn’t much of a hugger, and he didn’t want to alienate this poor kid if he wasn’t either. He tried to avoid physical affection if he could.

He didn’t know what this kid was doing to him, and he didn’t even know his name.

“What’s wrong?” Dallon asked, a tad awkward. “Please tell me.” The man shook his head adamantly and pulled away from Dallon’s touch. He leaned back against the front door of the shop, back against the beautifully painted door frame. “ _Please_ ,” Dallon insisted. “You can trust me.”

Dallon wasn’t sure why he was doing this. This wasn’t him. He just wanted to help people not be sad through something external, like music. Personal, one-on-one help was his sister’s specialty. He was too awkward to help properly like his mother yelled over their living room many times as a younger man.

He couldn’t just leave this guy here, though. That would way down his already heavy conscience; along with the fact that he will probably die in these sub-freezing temperatures dressed like this. “ _Please_ ,” Dallon whispered, trying to meet this man’s eyes.

The man let out a shaky breath. “I-It’s not i-important, I-I promise. Y-You c-can leave m-me,” the man mumbled, pulling his knees in. “I-I’m okay.”

“Bull,” Dallon said, shaking his head. “You’re not okay.  _Trust me_ , you can tell me. I can try and help.” Dallon was speaking out the ass, but that’s not what mattered. He wanted to know why this young adult was sobbing his eyes out on New Year’s Eve when he should be partying with his friends. ( _So should you_ , a snide voice said in the back of his mind,  _but you aren’t. You’re such a hypocrite._ )

The man wiped his eyes (which was ineffective, as more tears continued to stream down his slick face) and nodded. “F-Fine. M-My, uh, m-my boyfriend,” he took a deep breath, “my b-boyfriend—R-Ryan—l-locked me o-out,” he whispered reluctantly. Dallon felt rage burn deep inside him. What an asshole! What kind of scum locks out someone—overnight—in December? Heck, any time of year!

“Why did he lock you out?” Dallon asked gently, running a hand over the man’s shaking shoulders, trying to sooth him. ( _If mom saw me now_ , Dallon thought bitterly,  _she’d probably keel over dead._ ) “What kind of person does that?”

The man shook his head, tears coming more readily. He hiccoughed. “B-Because, sir, I-I’m an a-awful b-boyfriend.” His tone held a large amount of self-hatred, something Dallon was scarily used to. “H-He  _told_  m-me that i-if I came h-home,” he gestured to the flower shop above him, still not meeting Dallon’s eyes, “l-late again, he’d…”

Dallon wasn’t sure what to say. All he knew was that this guy’s boyfriend was an abusive asshole. “Sir,” Dallon said, “that’s  _awful_. Yo-Your boyfriend shouldn’t do that to you, it-it’s abuse!” Dallon took a deep breath as the man gave another broken sob. “What’s your name?”

“Brendon,” the man—Brendon—mumbled. “Brendon Urie. And he loves me,” he added quietly. Dallon ignored it.

“Okay, I’m Dallon Weekes,” Dallon repeated from earlier. “How old are you, Brendon?” Dallon leaned in closer, not quite hugging him, but surrounding him with as much body heat of his could. The last thing he wanted was Brendon to get hypothermia. That wouldn’t be good.

“20,” Brendon mumbled again. Dallon bit his lip—he was young, so young, all alone, locked out by his abusive boyfriend. Dallon closed his eyes tightly again; what was he going to do? Heck, why was he doing this in the first place? This was so unlike him, yet, here he was, trying to be this kid’s savior. ( _You’re being the better person_ , another voice in his head whispered.  _Don’t overthink it_.)

“Okay,” Dallon repeated. “Brendon, how about you come with me. My apartment is really close and I can, uh, keep you until morning. Y-You’ll  _die_  out here—it’s like 27—in the teens with the wind chill—and you’re barely wearing anything.”

Dallon felt Brendon shake his head roughly. “I-I c-can’t. I-I-I have t-to wait until R-Ryan comes: I  _need_  t-to apologize for being a h-horrible boyfriend.”

“You’re not a horrible boyfriend,” Dallon stressed. “Please, it’ll be okay. Just come with me. I promise I won’t kidnap you.” Brendon let out a weak, choked laugh. Dallon didn’t want this poor kid to freeze to death—especially since it would technically be his fault. Brendon shook his head harder, though.

“I-I can’t, sir. H-He’s a-all I have!” Brendon cried. He let out another gut-wrenching sob and curled tighter onto himself. “H-He loves me, I swear!” Brendon dissolved into a new bout of tears. Dallon watched, still, as the tears seemed to freeze to Brendon’s face. Dallon forced himself to not wipe them away as if he was a mother.

“ _Brendon_ , please,” Dallon begged. His mind kept moving back to the point of  _why_  was he caring about this kid so much; they were basically strangers, unsure with each other. What about him was making Dallon want to trust and help him so much?  _Maybe he’s a representation of you_ , he thought.  _You want someone to comfort and take care of you when you’re down. You don’t have that, so you want to help others._ “Shut up,” he muttered, out of Brendon’s earshot. He didn’t need this now. He was  _okay_.

Brendon let out another sob in time with the thundering of Dallon’s heart. He was feeling something akin to the parental need to protect another human.

Brendon took a gasping breath and shivered. “O-Okay,” he conceded. Dallon reached for Brendon’s icy, shaking hand, and pulled them both up. Once they were standing there, Brendon still crying quietly, Dallon realized that he towered over Brendon by a good 8 inches. Man, this kid was small.

Dallon, throwing away any past inclinations to  _not_ hug this kid and brought him close in an embrace. Brendon seemed to melt into his hug, drying his tears on Dallon’s thick, woolen coat. When they pulled away, Dallon took one look at Brendon’s thin, cold body, and stripped his coat. He handed it to the shaking kid, who reluctantly accepted it. It dwarfed him, making him look smaller than his actual height. Dallon’s heart panged again.

“Come on,” he mumbled and began to guide Brendon (in a stunning turn of events) to his lonely apartment. “It’ll be okay.” 


	2. Maybe Banging His Head On The Wall Would Be Less Painful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although he was hesitant to admit it, he didn’t want the kid to be alone. Dallon knew what alone felt like. Heck, ever since that fateful day (and even before then, if he was being honest) he was the living definition of alone. He had enough of a conscience to not let this kid experience it any more than he might have. Dallon, on the other hand, was okay. He was fine. (Even though he may dream of one day having the intimacy he so craves, it was okay. He will survive.) 
> 
> Dallon pulled Brendon tighter to his side as they stumbled up the last flight of stairs. The stairs were cold, though not as much as outside, but Dallon and Brendon’s breath mixed in pale puffs. He cursed his crappy building, but it was all that he could afford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lookie lookie, an update! ive had half of this written out for a few days, and have just gotten the chance to finish and type it out. well all need a dose of emo-dallon, don't we? honestly he resonates with me in this fic.
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy! (and that i will update sometime soon. since it's almost christmas break - one more week for me - I'll hopefully get to write a bunch then!!) 
> 
> :)
> 
> note: slightly edited. if anyone wants to do some edits for me, hit me up. it's not dire, tho

By the time Dallon and Brendon were stumbling their way up the concrete steps to Dallon’s apartment, he was sure that his fingers were going to fall off. During their walk (in which Dallon realized that his 5 minute estimate was horribly wrong) the temperature had dropped maybe 3 or 4 more degrees, plunging them into the low 20s. Brendon was still hanging heavily off of Dallon’s arm, so he had to work to keep them _both_ propped up. He gained some body heat from the action, but it didn’t do much.

Given the temperature drop, Dallon didn’t regret taking the kid in as much as he thought that he might (There was going to be a stranger in _his_ space; something that hasn’t happened in a while). It was mainly the fact that he would have most likely froze, crying and alone. He didn’t want a death added to his list of sins.

Although he was hesitant to admit it, he didn’t want the kid to be alone. Dallon _knew_ what alone felt like. Heck, ever since that fateful day (and even before then, if he was being honest) he was the living definition of alone. He had enough of a conscience to not let this kid experience it any more than he might have. Dallon, on the other hand, was _okay_. He was _fine_. (Even though he may dream of one day having the intimacy he so craves, it was okay. He will survive.)

Dallon pulled Brendon tighter to his side as they stumbled up the last flight of stairs. The stairs were cold, though not as much as outside, but Dallon and Brendon’s breath mixed in pale puffs. He cursed his crappy building, but it was all that he could afford.

The elevator had been broken for as long as he was living there (which normally wasn’t an issue—only on days like today and grocery days). His lungs burned as he basically dragged Brendon, who was still shivering violently. “Come on, Brendon,” Dallon grunted.

“S-Sorry,” Brendon muttered. He had this wounded tone of voice, which made Dallon’s heart clench again. He wanted to get him inside and give him a nice cup of hot chocolate (a necessity) and off to bed. That order of events needed to be completely as quick as possible, since Dallon required the proper 30 minutes to completely overanalyze the day.

Brendon wasn’t a nuisance (well, by Dallon’s day-to-day standards, he was) but Dallon was used to being alone for most of the day. It was how he functioned. People tired him out, making him feel worse than he did when he woke up.

The quicker Brendon was asleep—which was soon, by the looks of it. Brendon’s red-rimmed eyes were drooping more with every step—the quicker Dallon could panic. It was a cycle. Wake up, go to work, come home, play music, panic over the mistakes he made during the day. It was almost comforting, in a sad sort of way.

Dallon realized that they were at his door. While still keeping a tight hand on Brendon’s waist, he fished out his keys from his back pocket, hissing at the cold metal. He unlocked the door and basically pushed Brendon straight through. “Sorry,” Brendon mumbled. He stood up taller, feet glued to the floor of Dallon’s foyer. Well, what _could_ constitute as a foyer. It was maybe the size of a broom closet, but it was all that Dallon needed.

Dallon slid past Brendon and into his house, flicking on the light. It pretty much lit the entire living room _and_ kitchen, highlighting just how small the room was. Dallon did a quick once-over of the room and sighed. He forgot how pathetic and kind of messy his house was. There were dishes that Dallon had been too lazy to do over in the sink and there were clothes strewn over the back of the cracked leather couch.

Quickly, Dallon grabbed the clothes and lobed them into his dark bedroom, not caring where they went. He’ll put them away properly later. It’s not like he had many people over (edit: he’s had exactly zero over since he moved in) so what was the point in cleaning up every day?

He glanced back at Brendon, who was swaying in his spot, eyes closed. “Brendon?” Dallon called, startling Brendon, who opened his eyes. Dallon noted that they were a (dare he say) gorgeous chocolate brown color, despite being rather puffy and red-rimmed. Dallon felt the unnecessary need to give him another hug and protect him from the horrors of the world. He refrained from so, shaking his head minimally.

 _Dammit,_ Dallon thought, _what’s getting into you, Weekes? You barely know him_.

“Yes?” Brendon asked softly, interrupting Dallon’s thoughts. His face read the epitome of uncertainty as he glanced around the room. He was rooted to the spot, seemingly afraid to even move, much less touch anything.

“Do you want hot chocolate?” Dallon asked, his voice taking a softer tone. He normally didn’t use this tone—preferring to save it for babies and cats (only when he was alone) —but he felt that Brendon needed it. And, that he won’t judge him. Dallon leaned against his coffee stained counter.

Brendon glanced between Dallon and his black leather couch, still shaking. “M-May I?” He sounded nervous, wringing his dry hands together. Dallon gave a hard swallow against an annoying swell of emotion and tapped his foot, thinking. He almost completely ignored Brendon for a few seconds.

 _What_ has Brendon been through? He didn’t want to know; the painful innocence on his nervous face was too much. Hearing a sick story of abuse told from that mouth ( _That gorgeous mouth,_ a snide voice said in his mind. Dallon told it to shut up. This wasn’t the time for this) might make Dallon cry in front of someone for the first time in since he was kicked out.

Dallon realized with a jump that Brendon was waiting for an answer. “Of course!” he said quickly, pulling a large—faux—smile. “And, Brendon,” he continued, “please make yourself at home. I, well, I don’t have many friends so it may be a bit messy. Don’t mind that. Don’t worry about moving anything, either.”

Brendon bit his lip, deciding whether to take the offer. “Go ahead,” Dallon insisted. He watched as Brendon, who was still shaking, slowly made his way into Dallon’s tiny living room. He took careful steps, making sure to not touch anything, despite Dallon’s earlier words. He shot a glance at Dallon and gently sat down with a sigh. Dallon turned away and began to make their drinks.

Dallon studied his cabinets, trying to figure out how to break the awkward silence. He wasn’t normally one to, but he felt in this situation it was necessary. He felt the need to make sure that Brendon was comfortable. He was used to being uncomfortable, but it was very obvious that Brendon wasn’t. _What’s going on with you_ , Dallon’s thoughts echoed. _This is not who you are_.

He ignored them. In turn, he called back over his shoulder, “Do you like marshmallows?” That almost broke the air and Brendon gave a nervous giggle. He nodded excitedly in response. Dallon shot him a rare (true) smile and spun back around, mixing the last of his peppermint marshmallows into the steaming cups of drink.

Gripping them carefully, Dallon navigated his counter and couch to hand Brendon a cup. He accepted it with a reluctant smile. “This’ll warm you up,” Dallon said.

“Thanks,” Brendon murmured. He took as a sip as Dallon took a seat on the chair to his left. Dallon noticed that Brendon was still wearing his large wool coat, which dwarfed him. His face was hidden by his awful bowl haircut, brown locks of hair covering his eyes. Brendon’s red glasses (a fashion statement, it seemed) fogged up from the exposer to his drink.

Dallon tried to not think about how adorable this man—kid, really, given their age difference—looked. He was staring into his drink like Jesus was at the bottom, a cautious smile on his face. Dallon wondered idly how long it was since Brendon had a drink like this, but he didn’t voice that question.

Dallon forced a small, fond smile off of his face (which was surprising, since it was normally the other way around) and took a long swig of his drink.

It burned his mouth (Dallon wasn’t surprised, with his awful luck) but he was used to pain. He didn’t take notice to the burn that will scar his mouth, rather choosing to focus on his wall clock, which was placed over Brendon’s head. It was 12:20 AM. Well, happy New Years to them, he guessed. He didn’t care for the passing of another year, or the inane celebration of it. What was the point to throw a party for the start of the year? Stuff like that wasn’t Dallon’s cup of tea. He preferred Christmas or Thanksgiving, despite not technically having a family anymore.

( _“Don’t you ever come back until you’ve fixed yourself!”_ His mother’s voice echoed through his head. He dismissed it. It was years ago, he was okay.)

Dallon passively noted that this was a first in spending New Years with even a _tolerable_ person. Go him. Taking in a poor, emotionally unstable young adult and celebrating the idea of having a tolerable person for a holiday he doesn’t care much for. He took another careful sip of his drink, taking in the fallen silence. All that he could clearly hear was the ticking of the clock and Brendon’s rhythmistic sips of his drink.

Dallon studied the kid. He wouldn’t have taken him for 20 at first glance; more like 16 or 17. Though, it could be the too large jacket, or the miserable look on his face that made him appear so young. It could also be the innocence in his eyes, far more than Dallon had held for years. Dallon felt the urge to run a long finger over his own worry lines, lest his confuse Brendon with his actions. He didn’t want to explain, not tonight.

 

 

Time ticked by. Dallon had soon finished his heavenly drink and took his attention to staring at his lap. Neither of them attempted to break the silence; Dallon too tired and Brendon too afraid. In fact, as the clock struck 1 AM on New Year’s Day, Dallon lift his head to find Brendon curled up, fast asleep.

Well.

Brendon looked ethereal. His eye lashes were flattened over his pristine, defined cheekbones. The look of misery had been lifted, leaving a blank, more peaceful look. Dallon preferred that to the crying. He stood up and grabbed the blanket from the back of his chair, holding it tightly. He wasn’t sure if he should cover Brendon up, but one look at that face made up his mind; he threw it over the sleeping boy’s body, tucking him in lightly. It was a rare expression of fondness on his part.

Brendon didn’t stir. Dallon walked away quietly and flipped off the lights. He picked up their mugs before deciding against it. The last thing that he wanted was for Brendon to wake up, so he just placed them down again and padded down the hall. He left the door opened, citing that he wanted to make sure that Brendon knew that he was there.

(He didn’t want to admit it, but the real reason was so that he could keep an eye on Brendon.)

He fell asleep quicker than most other days, a smile gracing his cracked lips.

 

 

When Dallon made his way down the hallway the next morning, he was greeted to an empty apartment. The blanket that he and tucked Brendon in with the night—or morning—before was neatly folded on his leather couch. A note was laid on top. Dallon felt an unwanted pang of worry for Brendon’s wellbeing.

He stepped forward, recoiling immediately as his eyes were met with a blinding beam of sunlight. He hissed but grabbed the note. Holding it up to his bad eyes—his glasses were on his bedside table—he noted that Brendon’s handwriting was large and loopy. He obviously left in a hurry. Dallon scanned the note without further ado.

_Dallon,_

_Thank you for housing me last night (and for the hot chocolate and comfort), but I really had to get back before Ryan becomes worried about me._

_Thank you again!_

_Brendon Urie._

Dallon let out the sigh he didn’t realize he was holding. The mention of Brendon’s boyfriend made Dallon inexplicably angry. He chalked it up to being because Ryan had _literally left his boyfriend out in the cold for being late_. What kind of person _does_ that? Who has the lack of conscious to?

Dallon hoped that Brendon was okay. Yeah, yeah, he’ll be okay, definitely. All alone with his abusive boyfriend. Just okay, like Dallon was. He gave a nervous laugh before sighing again. What was getting into him? Dallon closed his eyes and tried to flush all thoughts of the—dare he say— _adorable_ Brendon Urie. God save him.

Dallon made a quick cup of coffee (which he _could_ make at work, since he works at a freaking coffee shop, but he _knows_ that most of their coffee sucks. Why he still has a job there, he wasn’t sure; they don’t get _that_ much business.). Throwing on his work clothes and locking the door, he jogged to his crap car. It was stupid that he had to work on New Year’s Day, but he needed the extra cash. It’s not like he had anyone to celebrate it with, anyway. His boss knew that too, which is probably why he was given the shift.

He drove to work in silence, too lazy to turn on any music today. His mind was too occupied, anyway; he kept drifting to Brendon Urie, despite all attempts not to. He was _so_ young, so innocent, and in such an awful predicament. Dallon wasn’t sure how to help him, though, which bugged him to no end. He gripped the steering wheel tighter in response. He couldn’t deal with this.

 

 

Work was like it always was. Dallon, in almost robotic movements, greeting costumers with a fake smile, taking their orders. He made their coffees and lattes and teas, eyes downcast and face stony. For maybe a solid _hour_ , he kept every thought of Brendon Urie unceremoniously shoved out of his head. He had to do something to keep it like that.

He had to keep himself away from Brendon. The idea of even _possibly_ being relied on terrified him to no end. It was stressful and he would fail, like always. Another part of himself screamed that he should go help this poor kid, but he tried to keep that part quiet.

Dallon shut the cash register with a loud _bang_. Spencer, he coworker on this shift, shot up, startled at the sudden noise. The shop was nearly empty—a smaller guy with a fedora was typing ferociously on his computer. He was a regular, so Dallon didn’t take much notice of him—so it didn’t matter all that much if Dallon had an emotional breakdown. Spencer could cover for him if need be.

“Are you okay, Dallon?” Spencer asked, not unkindly. He seemed to be kind of annoyed with the noise, but that could just be Dallon’s warped perspective. He always thought he was being annoying. Spencer was just being kind, following the social pleasantries. It’s not like they were friends.

“Yeah,” Dallon gritted out, fingers clenched over the edge of the counter. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry. It felt nice, though. He glanced at the clock and internally sighed; he couldn’t believe that it was _only_ 10 AM. He wiped grabbed a rag and wiped down the bar, not meeting Spencer’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer insisted, stepping towards Dallon, who moved away. Dallon tried to focus on the sunlight now hitting his eyes.

“Yep, just tired,” he said dismissively, not completely lying. He _was_ tired; it just wasn’t the whole story. He had gotten good at that—it was easier to not tell the whole truth than to just lie.

“Well, okay. I’m your friend—” _Lies_ , Dallon thought. _We’re not friends._ He just wasn’t rude enough to say it out loud, especially since there were costumers. “—so I’m always here for you, okay? You can talk to me.”

“Okay,” Dallon agreed, not really listening. He wanted Spencer to leave him alone so he could go and bang his head against the wall to end his emotions. It was looking more and more appealing as each minute passes. “If you say so,” he added quietly, shaking his head.

Behind him, he heard Spencer to move to grab a scrap piece of paper. He leaned his head against the cool countertop, listening to the scratching of a pencil. Without warning, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Dallon slowly spun around, schooling his expression to appear okay. “Here’s my number,” Spencer said, holding the slip of paper up.

Dallon wasn’t sure what to say in response, but he cautiously grabbed the slip of paper and slid it into his back pocket. “Uh, thanks, I guess.” His brain was malfunctioning with all that was happening. Normally, he and Spencer worked in near-silence, talking only when needed. He didn’t expect them to ever get to the “exchanging-numbers” part of being coworkers.

Spencer locked eyes with Dallon, blue meeting blue. Dallon began to feel even _more_ uncomfortable, as if he was being x-ray’ed by the smaller man. Dallon towered over him, just like he had with Brendon. “Call me if you need anything,” Spencer said quietly, before continuing louder, “That’s what friends are for.”

Dallon almost blurted out that they weren’t friends, but decided to not. He didn’t want to hurt Spencer. “Okay, well, t-thanks Spencer.” He shot him a pained smile. Spencer broke their eye contact.

“Good,” he said, giving Dallon a bright smile. Dallon watched as Spencer turned back around and stepped into their back room. He surveyed the still almost empty shop as he fought the intense urge to bang his head against the wall. That would cause some people to worry.

How in the world did his life turn to this?

 


	3. Selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Dallon found his car—half-hidden by some fancy, large truck—he was shivering heavily. It then dawned on him that Brendon had mistakenly taken his jacket after sleeping in it. Are you kidding me? Dallon thought bitterly. How could he have not noticed that before? 
> 
> More the reason to seek him out, a sly voice whispered. Dallon shut his eyes, laying his forehead flat against his steering wheel, groaning quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Alayna for giving this a read before I go ahead a post it. I wrote it in a two-hour straight block, so forgive any mistakes. I'm exhausted. 
> 
> I hope that this doesn't feel like a filler chapter, or that it drags on forever. that's not what I meant it to be like.
> 
> lol I hope you enjoy.

Dallon was tempted to shut his head in the glass front door of the shop. Like, right across his neck, decapitation-style. There was an _annoyingly_ insistent tapping occurring over on the front window, right near to Dallon’s left ear. He was sure that he was the only one bothered by it—Spencer was on the other side of the shop, sweeping away, humming. The only other person there was Mr. Fedora Man— _Patrick,_ Dallon thought, tapping an imaginary finger to his chin—and he had headphones on. Each tap felt like a hammer against his forehead.

Dallon knew that it was everything coming together in one unholy mush in his thoughts, all of his strife over Brendon, his almost unbearable loneliness, and the annoyance that was Spencer Smith. Not that Spencer was annoying in the most basic definition of the word, but more of annoying in the way that he cared too much for Dallon, despite barely knowing him. It was something that Dallon had no experience with.

He shut his eyes to the new ache building, running a comforting hand through his hair. Slow days like these made his eyes burn and head pound. There were no customers to take his mind off of life for a bit. Sure, there were a few to-go orders (like always), but it wasn’t enough to stop the worried glances being shot by Spencer and the constant flow of thoughts whizzing around Dallon’s fried brain. All he wanted to do was go home and play his bass until his fingers were in pain and his eyes were watering from dryness. He needed his escape like it was a drug.

Spencer sauntered past him, humming some inane song and air guitar-ing. He was shameless. Dallon wasn’t sure how he could act like that without feeling like everyone was watching. He clenched his jaw and studied the back of Spencer’s messy-haired head. He had an awful haircut, in Dallon’s humble opinion. It wasn’t as bad as Brendon’s—Dallon was sure that nothing was—but it was getting there. He was shorter than Dallon by at least 6 inches and held a sturdier appearance. As a child, Dallon ached to be shorter; his long, awkward limbs earned him no rewards in grade school, only constant and ruthless bullying. He didn’t resent them for it—the teasing made him into the person he was today. A person who won’t be overrun by someone stupid.

Once Spencer turned around and was looking at him in a weird way, Dallon realized that he was staring. He coughed, averting his eyes. “Don’t mind me,” he muttered, rubbing his neck, “Just thinking.” Spencer raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something otherwise, but Dallon shut him down again, shaking his head. “Seriously.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and leaned against the closed cash register. Dallon watched as his creamy arms turned red from being pressed against the cold marble. Spencer had a bittersweet grin, one that made Dallon want to punch him. It was too close to pity. It also made Dallon realize that he had an anger problem. “If you’re sure, Dallon,” Spencer said lightly. He glanced at his watch.

“The time?” Dallon asked curtly. Personally, he preferred conversations to be short and to the point. Flowery language should be saved for poetry and teenage diaries; the real world had no time for such things. The real world didn’t give a damn for your insipid feelings, the real world was cold and cruel and poised to kill given the chance.

Dallon also believed that everyone should just cut their bull and get to their point, saying what their thinking, rather than dancing around it like ballerinas. Though, in that regard, he was a hypocrite. It’s not like he had the balls to say what he was thinking at any given point. Following that train of thought, he was a hypocrite in many ways.

Spencer’s reply broke his thoughts. “11:40.”

Dallon leaned back onto the machine’s deck, lifting his foot to relieve the dull ache. “Shift’s almost done. Has Trohman and Wentz let you know if they’re coming?” Pete Wentz and Joe Trohman were the two men who worked the shift directly after Dallon and Spencer. From what he knew—which wasn’t much—they were nice enough guys if a bit crazy. Dallon wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but he thought that they might be in a band together. He didn’t care enough to ask them, although he thought it was pretty cool if they were

What irked Dallon about them, though, was the fact that they _both_ somehow tended to be late or almost late for every shift; he had places to go, people to see, things to freak out over. It was a sad life, but, eh, it was his. It’s not like he could change that right now.

“Not yet,” Spencer said, twirling a pencil that he had grabbed absently. Dallon watched as he bit his lip in concentration, furrowing his brow as the pencil made another slow spin. Dallon had this unfortunate habit of studying people while they don’t see him—it was a window to who they truly were. Something that is easily hidden behind a guise of false happiness, or humor, or general contentedness. It also gave him an excuse to pick out their flaws, knicks in their otherwise decent personality. It made him—minimally, mind you—feel better about his flaws (as numerous as they were).

He wasn’t sure why people liked him.

“Well, just so you know, I have to leave immediately after this.” Dallon idly fixed his button up and pushed his glasses back up his nose; he always dressed up for work, despite there being a rather lax dress code. Dressing up was a simple solution for a rather complex problem—all it did was made him feel a bit better about himself. Like a band-aid on a bullet hole.

“Like always,” Spencer said dryly. “What’re you up to?” Dallon had hoped that he wouldn’t try and inquire further, but, alas, here he was again.

He hesitated, realizing he had no suitable lie in place. Anything that he _was_ going to do shouldn’t be mentioned, lest Spencer try and insert himself further into Dallon’s life. “I have to meet my mother.” In reality, he hadn’t spoken to his mother in years, but he didn’t want to say that he was going to just go home—be alone— and freak out over some guy who had spent the night under some shady circumstances. _And is in an abusive relationship_ , he added.

“Your mom?” Dallon bit his tongue, causing his eyes to water. He prayed that Spencer didn’t think he was crying. Well, he felt like it, but that’s beside the point.

“Yes.” Lies, but that’s what he was living. Every time he spoke he wove a new layer of lies, making an alarmingly more complicated web. He just couldn’t help it; lies were easier than half-assed truths that sounded pathetic to even his own ears. “She’s in town.” Dallon felt as though Spencer could see straight through him. His forehead, under his hair, was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He didn’t wipe it away.

“If you say so,” Spencer said finally. He turned around and pulled open the cash register, proceeding to count whatever cash lay inside. He was completely ignoring Dallon, who was still standing behind him. Despite it being his fault, Dallon felt bad about it. Maybe, deep down, he appreciated Spencer. Or, it was just because this was a very distinctly un-Spencer like act.

He didn’t ponder it further. It was what he wanted, right?

 

The shift finished in an awkward silence. The only noise was the occasional customer and the gorgeous hum of machinery. Dallon dusted just about every surface available to, twice. The lack of customers was driving him crazy, and he needed something to occupy himself before he went stir crazy. Multiple times, to illustrate his boredom, he almost walked straight up to the annoyingly kind Spencer and spill every last thing he was feeling.

But, he didn’t. Spencer didn’t need to worry about him.

During the last hour of the shift, Dallon could feel himself growing fond of Spencer. No, not romantically, but platonically, as if Spencer was a good _friend_ of his. He knew it was long coming, spending hours working with him and all. He, still, refrained from calling Spencer a “friend” of his, as that would denote attachment. He had too much trouble with that as is.

Spencer was just too kind for his own good, Dallon decided. Or, he was being an asshole. Neither were new news.

Finally, _finally,_ the clock struck 1 PM and Dallon was free from work, free from feeling guilty about not talking to Spencer. Free to worry about Brendon as a full-time job. He hurriedly put away from apron (one of the only parts of his job that he loved whole-heartedly was the apron—for some reason, it was comforting to him. Cozy, even. It was snug, like a constant hug) and grabbed his car keys from his cubby.

He signed out and was milliseconds away from speeding out the door and out into the cool January air when Spencer called: “Dallon, your phone!”

Dallon, in mid-step, froze. He turned slowly, a blush decorating his cheeks. He felt as though everyone’s eyes were on him. “Oh, yeah. Don’t want to forget that. Thanks.” He took his cracked and nearly broken phone from Spencer’s out-stretched hand. He gave a sort of awkward half-salute towards Spencer’s smirking fast, and fast walked out of there.

The shop door opened with ease, the windless day providing no resistance. Walking around outside wasn’t even close to being as bad as it was the day before, but it was still cold. Dallon’s breath came out in pale puffs, surrounding his red face was he searched for his car. He had completely forgotten where he had parked that morning, his sleep deprivation causing his mind to go fuzzy. He gripped his icy car keys tightly, leaving light indentations in his fingers.

By the time Dallon found his car—half-hidden by some fancy, large truck—he was shivering heavily. It then dawned on him that Brendon had mistakenly taken his jacket after sleeping in it. _Are you kidding me_? Dallon thought bitterly. How could he have not noticed that before?

 _More the reason to seek him out,_ a sly voice whispered. Dallon shut his eyes, laying his forehead flat against his steering wheel, groaning quietly.

He stayed in that position until his phone buzzed, shaking him out of his stupor. He couldn’t care less about who texted him, just that it gave him an excuse to left his head up. He didn’t attempt to answer the text, he just started up his car and kicked up the working heat he had. The belt buckle was reminiscent of his keys minutes before—icy as all hell.

Dallon slowly pulled out of the city’s parking lot, knuckles clenched tight over the steering wheel. It was only 1:30 PM, so there weren’t many people on the road. That fact alleviated some of his anxiety. Driving was simultaneously relaxing _and_ anxiety inducing; he wasn’t sure how or why it was both… it just was.

The bright sun reflected off of the white cars ahead of his, nearly blinding him. He fought the urge to shut his eyes, lest putting other in danger, as he was driving a 2 ton death machine. If he died it wouldn’t matter too much, but the idea of putting those around him in danger—potentially _killing_ them—made him feel sick. That was a plus for him, right? He wasn’t a complete psychopath.

Dallon slowly turned off of the main street and puttered down a smaller side road, towards the direction of his apartment building. Multiple small businesses and cafés lined the two-way road; cars zipped past him, going the opposite direction. Dallon took a deep breath. In front of him, fluffy white clouds floated in front of the white-hot sun, giving him some relief. Shadows of his eyelashes danced each time he blinked.

Right as another cloud uncovered the sun once again, Dallon’s eye caught sight of something. Rather, someone. In an uncontrolled reaction, Dallon nearly slammed his brakes of his car in surprise; to his immediate right, sitting with another, unfamiliar man, was Brendon!

The world slowed for a split-second.

Dallon kept a tight grip on his steering where and studied the scene before him. Brendon, from what he could see, was wearing a tight woolen coat (Not his, Dallon realized. Where was his coat? It was one of his favorites, something that he had saved up for. He hoped that he’d get it back.) As Dallon was about to pass them, Brendon turned back towards Dallon, swallowing a spoonful of something, fed by who he assumes is Ryan.

That _Ryan_ character was actually rather good looking. At least, from what Dallon could see as he hurtled past at 40 miles per hour. Ryan had a long, angular body and it looked like he was wearing a flowery vest and a gorgeous flower crown. Which, Dallon guessed, made sense since he owned a flower shop.

Seeing Ryan made Dallon’s confliction over Brendon worse. He looked like such a nice guy! He didn’t think that Brendon had lied to him about being locked out, despite Ryan’s appearance. The pain in his face spoke more words than Dallon cared to listen to.

Though, as the pair were nearly out of Dallon’s sight, Brendon turned again, angling his face towards the road. Dallon wasn’t sure if it was a shadow or a figment of his imagination, but he was sure that he saw a bruise blooming over Brendon’s otherwise pristine cheek and jaw.

Then he was gone, trees covering Dallon’s line of sight.

Dallon felt his heart clench and throat grow dry. He wanted to sock himself in the eye as a punishment for getting attached. Or for getting into this situation in the first place. What was he getting himself into? He promised himself that he would never allow himself to get attached again. But, look where he was now, basically in love with a stranger after knowing him for less than a day.

(In that moment, Dallon didn’t realize that _maybe_ he was reacting so strongly was because a poor, young kid was getting beat up by his boyfriend. That thought crossed his mind a few times, though never sticking. Let this be a lesson in his pure selfishness. He’s accepted it by now.)

Was it unrealistic that he was so attached, though? Oh, definitely. Completely unlike him? On the nose. Was he going to stop? Unlikely. Unless he went through the plan and ended himself while it’s prime. (It was looking more and more pleasant each day. But, no, he’s _fine_.)

Dallon pulled up to a stop light and groaned aloud. God save him. He shut his eyes, only to be rudely awakened by a car honking behind him. Dallon lifted his head to see the light turn green. There were no other lanes going the same direction.

He indulged himself in a moment of pure pettiness and waited through the light. The harmonious honking of the cars behind him almost brought a tear of joy to his eye. See, he wasn’t hurting anyone. Just letting out his emotions by inconveniencing them.

He was the king of petty, especially when emotionally distressed. Fit the crown to his head. (But, he was only a kid.)

 

Dallon sped home as quickly as possible after his brief moment of relaxation. His body was tense and taut, as if he was one of his beloved bass strings; he rubbed his neck to try and rid it of a dull ache. He unlocked his door with haste and barreled in, disregarding whatever may be in his way. He tossed his keys and jacket onto his counter and fell onto his couch with a sigh.

He placed his head in his hands. If that was a bruise, he definitely had proof that Brendon was being abused. He swallowed hardly, clenching his jaw. He dug his hand into his pocket, looking for gum (as a way to ease his nerves) when his hand brushed a slip of paper.

A jolt shot through him. Spencer’s number. For a split second, he considered calling—more like texting—him, but he refrained from so. It’s not like Spencer would care about it, and the last thing that Dallon wanted was to get more people involved than he had to. If he was being honest, he wanted to go and punch Ryan in retaliation. Then proceed to get beaten up, as he is rather weak. Dallon was also embarrassed for showing his emotions and was terrified that Spencer would make fun of him for it.

 _Maybe it’s for the best to call him_ , he thought. And then shut that down. No way. He could handle it, totally. _Look how well you’re handling it now_.

A part of him—and a rather vocal one, to boot—knew that Spencer would be able to help. A part of him knew that it wasn’t healthy to keep his feelings bottled up until the day where they would eventually explode… violently. A part of him was confused by Brendon Urie—ignoring the abuse case—was so stuck in his thoughts. A part of him hated it. A part of him loved it. (There were so many parts of him. Maybe he should get that schizophrenia checked out. He let out a weak laugh.)

He was conflicted.

 

Dallon didn’t leave the couch for another 4 hours. He didn’t have the energy to; he’d rather spend the time lightly tracing Spencer’s number over the sheet, thinking. He was exquisite at doing absolutely nothing for extended periods of time. It’s something that you get rather good at while living alone with little friends. ( _Spencer’s your friend,_ a voice said. _Though he’s probably just pitying you_.) Dallon bit his lip, letting some of the pain overtake his overactive thoughts.

The selfish part of him reared its ugly head, begging for the simpler days. Days where he had no care in the world, when his parents didn’t hate him, when he was _actually_ okay. He wished for the days when all he had to do was make cordial conversation with Spencer before coming home and playing bass until his fingers bleed. The sad thing was life only started to get more complicated (more than it already was), a day or so ago. He could barely handle that.

 _But, now you’re worrying about Brendon_ , he thought. The thought, for some reason, angered him. He stood up suddenly, unable to let out his emotions in a more healthy way. He was miserable. Dallon ran a hand roughly through his thin hair, pulling at his hardly. He felt the uncomfortable need to cry, his eyes burning and his nose stuffed up. He nearly let out a scream but controlled himself at the last minute. He held a silence conversation with himself, not trusting his voice.

_Text Spencer._

_No, I don’t need him._

_You idiot, look at yourself, nearly crying over some problem you’ve wormed your way into. And he offered. Get off of your ass_ — _figuratively_ — _and pull your head out of the sand._

_I’m fine._

_Fine,  my ass. Text. Spencer._

Oh joy, look at him, going insane. It would be the cherry on top of the cake that was his miserable life. Dallon sighed and bent down to grab the paper slip and his phone. He noticed _another_ crack on it, great.

He ignored it; let that be something to freak out about later in the night. Dallon slowly typed Spencer’s number in, before pausing. It was then that Dallon realized he had no clue what to say.

“ _Help me, I’m lonely son of a gun who accidentally found a kid with an abusive boyfriend and I’ve inexplicably grown attached to him and I hate myself for it._ ” Way too much information given. He’d rather shoot himself than expose this layer of inner thoughts. (Yes, these constitute as inner thoughts. He’s a very reserved person, if you haven’t noticed.)

 _“Spencer? It’s Dallon. I thought I’d text you.”_ Too vague.

Finally—after a period he knew was definitely too long to compose a text to a coworker—Dallon gave up and typed what he thought would work.

 _“Hello, Spencer, this is Dallon. I have a quick question_ — _do you know anything about a man called Ryan, who runs the flower shop on 5 th?” _

Anxiety bubbling, Dallon hit _send_. He gripped his phone tightly and waited for a response. He closed his eyes tight against his thundering heart, throat thick. He hoped that Spencer didn’t think he was being too intrusive.

Spencer responded a minute later, to Dallon’s relief. It felt like years.

**From Spencer Smith [6:45:16 PM]**

_Oh, hey, Dallon. And yeah, Ryan Ross? I was a friend of his a few years back_.

Dallon sighed in relief. Maybe Spencer _would_ be able to help him after all. He poised his thumbs over his phone, thinking for a response. This was about to get interesting.


	4. Meet Brendon Urie A Bit Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon stood in haste, twisting back to a normal position. His back cracked, a blanket falling to his feet in a pile. He hoped that whoever took him—Brendon racked his brain for a name—hadn’t heard him. The last thing he wanted was for him to wake up. Brendon neatly folded the blanket and laid it on the couch.
> 
> He took careful steps around the room, searching for some way to leave a note. He picked through the table, finding a scrap of paper and a pencil. At the same time, he found a bill, informed him of the man’s name. Dallon Weekes. He scribbled out a thank you and placed it on the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys look at me. 4.5k words. i cant. this took about 5 hours totally to write a final draft (with near tears and rage and many breaks) 
> 
> but you dont understand. i accidentally didnt save my editing and had to REWRITE 1000 WORDS OF THIS 
> 
> YOURE WELCOME FOR THE BEEBO CHAPTER.
> 
> back to dallon after this :)

Brendon’s fingers prickled with the sense of receding coldness as he tucked his hand into the warmth surrounding his stomach. His fingers were clenched around something soft—a blanket, or a coat, maybe? He wasn’t sure and it wasn’t something that was a pressing thought. He had no clue where he was, let alone what his fingers were wrapped around. The couch below him was leather, it seemed, and was sticking to the sliver of his exposed stomach. His shirt had ridden up during the night.

He snuggled deeper into the nicely made blanket that was laid over his body. He silently thanked whoever put it on him; it was a nice gesture.

It was then that his eyes shot open, burning with realization. The gravity of the situation came crashing down onto his thin shoulders.  _Where in the world was he?_  It was very obvious that he wasn’t outside—the warmth and lack of wind made that evident—but he could barely remember anyone saving him. The last thing that was clear to him was the fact that Ryan had left him out on the front door, commanding that he would, in fact, spend the night outside.

Speaking of Ryan—where did he think Brendon was? Brendon sat bolt up, body rigid as panic began to take place. He winced as his joints popped, but he didn’t focus on that. Oh, gosh, Ryan probably hated him! Brendon was an awful boyfriend—he took a wheezing breath—because he left the step that Ryan had told him to stay on.

He was basically a petulant child, unable to listen to those looking out for him; that’s what Ryan does for him! What was wrong with him?

The further question would be,  _who_  had taken him? Eyes wide, Brendon surveyed the room that he was placed in. The room was pitch black, so Brendon was unable to deduce the time. He assumed that it was early in the morning, though the windows were covered by heavy curtains.

Gosh, Ryan was going to be livid! Brendon flinched against his will, thinking worriedly about what Ryan would do to him once he got home.

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to leave. Wherever he was—he assumed that it was an apartment or small townhouse—was safe and warm. It felt lived-in, unlike his and Ryan’s home. Well, house. Brendon wasn’t sure that he could call it  _home_. That wasn’t the word. But, he still loved Ryan dearly and owed him a lot for pretty much saving him.

Brendon stood in haste, twisting back to a normal position. His back cracked, a blanket falling to his feet in a pile. He hoped that whoever took him—Brendon racked his brain for a name—hadn’t heard him. The last thing he wanted was for him to wake up. Brendon neatly folded the blanket and laid it on the couch.

He took careful steps around the room, searching for some way to leave a note. He picked through the table, finding a scrap of paper and a pencil. At the same time, he found a bill, informed him of the man’s name.  _Dallon Weekes_. He scribbled out a  _thank you_  and placed it on the blanket.

Brendon took a deep breath and wrapped the coat he was wearing (he wasn’t sure  _whose_  it was, but he was too out of it to leave it) tighter around his thin body; it smelled of cinnamon and aftershave. He speed-walked out of the apartment, giving it one last glance. He hoped that he’d see the kind stranger again, but he wasn’t counting on it. Ryan could be controlling and Brendon was rarely allowed to see kind (and handsome, too, if he was remembering correctly) strangers again if Ryan found out about them.

And he always did, somehow. Brendon still loved him, despite that. He knew that Ryan loved him, too. Sometimes—especially when he was angry with Brendon, which was unfortunately often—Brendon had his doubts if Ryan loved him, but Ryan somehow made it up to him through dates and loving sex. He blushed to his bruised arms just thinking about it.

Brendon dug his hands deep into his pockets and walked out of the apartment building. He vaguely recognized it (he and Ryan could’ve passed by it driving in the past) but knew no discernable landmarks. It was an older building, similar to his street, though they were a bit more upscale. He didn’t judge Dallon for living over here—without Ryan, he’d either be here or dead.

Brendon wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, so he accidently speed-walked smack into an old, red Honda. Tears welled in his eyes, this being his tipping point, and he continued on. Tears never fell; he walked with burning eyes. He didn’t want Ryan to see any remnants of tears. He shut his eyes tightly.

He checked the time on a nearby Walgreen’s clock—it was 5:45 AM, he was correct at his earlier guess—and began to jog. He wasn’t all that fit and soon his breath was coming in heavy puffs, spewing white everywhere to the point where it was obstructing his vision. The night was dark but the moon was bright, the light dancing over his exposed, pale skin.

His nose burned from the cold. He continued to move in the direction that he believed his and Ryan’s house was, terrified as to what Ryan’s reaction will be. What he knew, though, was that it was best to admit and atone for his sins dead on, rather than shying away. Ryan appreciated that. It was safer to make Ryan happy.

 _Note to self,_  he thought,  _write that down as a quote to live by. “Anything to make Ryan happy.”_

Brendon rounded another corner, lungs burning. His eyes darted around the quiet and unfamiliar street; he heard the murmurings of people going home (leaving parties, he presumed), and the occasional yell of drunks. He longed to be with the party crowd, somewhere where he can just blend in and be “one” with the people, so to speak. It would be somewhere that he could be no one, or be anyone. The escape would be gladly welcomed.

He craved the party life. But, as expected, Ryan was strict about him going out, and, well, Brendon knew the rules.  _Don’t go out after 8 PM, unless directed by and/or with Ryan,_  he remembered repeating over and over again,  _don’t be too friendly to strangers, don’t be late if given a time to be home, don’t be frivolous._  That was the reason why he had to stay outside the night before.

Ryan  _had_  told him that if he was late again, he’d be left outside for the night. He was late coming home after going to the store for some milk and Ryan had told him that he had to be home by 8:00 PM. He  _knew_  that he shouldn’t have helped that poor old lady cross the road when he only had a few minutes to get home. He thought he had plenty of time, but the worst thing that could have happened, did; he got lost.

He spent the next hour wandering the streets, trying not to cry and desperately lost. When he found a familiar street, he was shaking so hard he could barely hold on to his bags. He tried to explain what had happened to Ryan—he didn’t have a cell phone to call him, as he couldn’t afford it—but Ryan just took the bag and coldly informed him that he would spend the night on the step.

He accepted the punishment, though it didn’t stop him was crying his eyes out. It was his fault and he prayed that Ryan would accept his apology.

Brendon shook his head to clear his thoughts as he sprinted down the last street. He pulled himself up the two steps to the front door of the shop. According to the clock that was perched just inside the shop, in direct sight of the window, it was 6:15 AM. Brendon pulled the coat tighter, wishing for the warmth that he knew laid just inside the door.

Tentatively, he knocked on the door, praying Ryan would be up to hear him. He didn’t count on it, though, since Ryan tended to sleep until 7 on holidays. Some part of Brendon hoped that he wouldn’t answer the door right now, so Brendon wouldn’t have to face him right now. He wrung his hands nervously and waited. He wasn’t going to knock again, lest he had a death wish.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood in the steadily-rising sun rays. He was sweating heavily under the wool coat, but he refused to take it off. He was seconds away from sitting down when finally he heard the door unlock. He held his breath as Ryan pulled open the creaky door. Under his beanie, Brendon could see the sleep in his eyes. A warm blast of

“Brendon?” Ryan asked, confused. His voice was sleep-rough. He seemed to be out it, at least to Brendon, as he wasn’t immediately screaming at Brendon. Was that a good sign? Nope, it seemed, as it suddenly took an 180. Ryan’s eyes widened, rage flooding them. “Where were you?” he demanded. “Where did you get that coat—I thought I told you to stay out here all night?”

Ryan’s face contorted from its original rage to a forced sickly sweet smile. Brendon swallowed with difficulty. “R-Ryan,” he said, his voice breaking. “I-I’m sorry.” He felt his eyes burn as if he was going to cry. He was a rather emotional person, he admitted, and Ryan never failed to bring out that side of him. Brendon averted his gaze, studying Ryan’s slipper-clad feet. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Where were you?” Ryan’s voice was quiet and cold. That was dangerous. Brendon resisted the urge to take a step backward (and fall down the stairs) because he knew that Ryan would hate that even more.

“I-I was on t-the step l-like y-you told me a-and—” Brendon was cut off by Ryan.

“Spit it out!” Ryan roared. He reached forward and pulled Brendon into the shop by the front of his shirt. A warm blast of air greeting Brendon, like a warm balm to Ryan’s icy demeanor. Ryan shoved Brendon out of the way and shut the door with a  _bang._

“S-Some g-guy,” Brendon stuttered, not meeting Ryan’s burning gaze. “H-His name i-is Dallon W-Weekes and h-he w-was r-really nice an-and t-took me to h-his house for the night.” Brendon paused. Ryan took a step closer to him and Brendon lifted his head up, noticing Ryan’s clenched fists. Brendon was sure, deep inside Ryan’s chocolate brown eyes—light than Brendon’s own—he could see a flash of love and warmth, buried deep beneath the rage clouding them.

It could be a figment of his imagination, he would never know. It gave Brendon hope, despite the doubt surrounding it. Ryan  _did_  love him, which would explain why he was so angry that he spent the night at a stranger’s house! It wasn’t because Brendon had disobeyed him, he was just jealous. Brendon knew that he was being delusional but he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to decide otherwise.

“I-I slept on his c-couch, R-Ry—nothing happened! W-We barely t-talked!” Brendon spluttered, tears welling up. He, again, refused to let them fall. Ryan said nothing, only taking on a stony expression. Brendon bit the inside of his cheek, shutting his eyes tightly, until—

 _SMACK_. Brendon recoiled, cheek in pain. Ryan had moved in a flash, stepping towards Brendon and striking his jaw as hard as he could. The sound resonated through the cramped shop, echoing ominously. Brendon didn’t say anything; what was there to say?

Ryan had crossed the line, but Brendon still couldn’t bring himself to hate him for it. It was  _his_  fault and that was the issue. If he wasn’t such a horrid boyfriend, not appreciating Ryan as much as he so deserves for all that he has done from Brendon, then maybe Ryan wouldn’t be so angry with him. Brendon slowly lifted his hand to his cheek, prodding at the red mark. He hissed in pain.   

“Now, Brendon, what do you say?” Ryan spoke patronizingly as if Brendon were a naughty child. He sure felt like one; being treated as so didn’t help, either.

“Ry—Ryan, please, forgive me. I-I’m sorry,” Brendon begged. He slid to his knees, shaky legs giving out as if he was praying and Ryan was his deity. “Ryan, please.”

“Good.” Ryan smiled at Brendon. “Now, stand up. It’s unbecoming of my boyfriend to be on the floor,” he snapped. Brendon hurried to stand, cheeks flushed. He was equal parts distressed and elated. “And, you will never see this  _Dallon_ —” He spoke the name as if it was poison “—again. I’m the only one for you.”

Raw jealousy seeped into Ryan’s tone, and, for once in the last few years, Brendon saw the human side of Ryan. He missed it—something about it eased his anguish. He felt the urge to hug Ryan but knew it wasn’t opportune. Brendon, though, was also disappointed to hear that he couldn’t see the kind stranger again, though it wasn’t unexpected.

(The more he thought about it, mulling around on his walk home, Brendon felt a sort of weird connection to Dallon. It wasn’t strictly romantic, more of just an emotional connection. Not that he would ever tell Ryan that. He didn’t have a death wish.)

“Did you hear me, Brendon?” Ryan repeated. Brendon’s head shot up and he realized that he was basically ignoring Ryan, stuck in his own world. He favored that.

“Y-Yes s-sir,” Brendon stuttered. Ryan’s face broke out into a bright smile, the sudden change in emotion terrifying Brendon to no end. He didn’t comment on it, though.

“Great!” Ryan grabbed Brendon’s hand in a comforting man. “Now, do you want some breakfast, dear?” It was always like that. One moment, Brendon would be cowering on the floor, shaking from Ryan’s daily rage at him, then, in the next moment, it would be over. They would be back to being normal boyfriends, happy and “in love”. It puzzled him.

Brendon forced a smile to rival Ryan’s. His jaw twinged with pain. He decided it was best to go along with Ryan; what other choice did he have? Risk setting him off again? “Heck yes!” Even to him, his cheer sounded horribly fake. He hoped Ryan didn’t notice the faux-excitement. “I’d love to.”

Ryan didn’t notice. It’s not like he ever did.

 

 

Brendon spent the rest of the morning after breakfast gravitating between Ryan’s ship and their bedroom, where he took it upon himself not to cry. It was a slow day in the flower business (what would one expect for New Years) so Brendon could stay and admire the gorgeous flowers in peace.

Once or twice, Ryan would make his way over, place his hands on Brendon’s hips, and sway to the tune of whatever song was playing over the speakers. Brendon would lay his head on Ryan’s chest and hum.

It was sweet. Brendon craved the moments like this like they were chocolate cake (his favorite). It was the moments that he could almost forget their broken relationship and feel like everything was okay. The moments acted like oxygen to their dying love—revitalizing them to the point where it was what was keeping them together.

Ryan would hum in his ear, nuzzling against his hair softly. Ryan’s breath smelled like syrup from the pancakes they had eaten for breakfast. It was the living definition of  _soft_.

Brendon turned and pressed a kiss to Ryan’s mouth, a soft smile gracing his lips. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he could forget their pitfalls and strengthen their relationship. In his delusions, he thought that maybe Ryan wouldn’t hit him again, or that he’ll finally be proud of Brendon and he’ll be a good boyfriend at last.

“I love you,” Ryan whispered, forehead pressed to Brendon’s. He almost sounded sincere—in fact, he sounded enough so that Brendon, for a second, believed him. He believed that Ryan loved him.

Brendon ignored the still-painful throbbing on his cheek and held Ryan’s hand tighter. He reached up and brushed away a stray piece of dirt on Ryan’s cheek, giggling at his adorable expression. Despite that, Brendon couldn’t force himself to repeat the same words. His lips couldn’t form them.

“And I, you.” 

 

By the time 12:30 rolled around, Brendon was exhausted. He was sat on the table that housed the cash register, swinging his legs to the beat of the song over the speaker. He wasn’t sure of the title nor who it was by—Ryan and he had wildly different tastes in music **.** The atmosphere was pleasant. He closed his eyes, palms flat against the table, humming the guitar riff. There weren’t any others in the shop, besides Brendon and Ryan.

From across the shop, he heard Ryan yell: “Brendon, do you want to go out to lunch?”

Brendon’s face brightened. He knew that they were probably going to go to his (and Ryan’s) favorite little café. He called back, “Yeah, I’d love to! What are you going to do about the shop, though?”

Brendon heard shuffling before Ryan suddenly appeared, hair mussed and tucked under his signature flower crown. From Brendon’s position, he looked absolutely adorable. He gestured around them. “Not a lot of business today, B. I’ll just close it down early.”

“If you’re sure,” Brendon said, a tad nervous. “Will that be okay? For like, money purposes?”

“Of course.” Ryan laughed and stepped closer to Brendon. He ruffled Brendon’s hair in a loving manner. “You worry too much. That’s my job.” He didn’t remove his hand from Brendon’s hair, only giving it a rough tug, eliciting a gasp from Brendon. “You don’t have to worry, Brendon, okay? I took you from there for a reason; you don’t deserve to worry. For any reason.”

Brendon flinched. Ryan’s voice had gained a cold edge. “Y-Yes sir,” he mumbled, not meeting Ryan’s eyes.

“Glad to have that clear,” Ryan said cheerfully. “Now, meet me outside in 5 minutes and we can go!” He moved to shoo Brendon away, before reaching up and gently caressing the bruise on Brendon’s cheek. “B, you gotta cover that up. Don’t want to anyone to question it, right?” He laughed, though, for some reason, Ryan had a pained look on his face.

Brendon gave a nervous giggle in response, gingerly poking the side of his face. He tried to ignore the look on Ryan’s face and the pain from the bruise. “O-Of course, R-Ryan.”  

Brendon jumped off the table and sprinted past Ryan, running up the stairs 2 at a time. He tried to not focus on the look on Ryan’s face, rather on what he was going to do to cover up the bruise. He made the short walk to their shared bathroom in record time, tapping his thigh, trying to think. What would be good enough to hide the prominent mark?

He flipped on the light and leaned closer to the mirror, studying the bruise. It was rather large and covered most of his face in a very obvious handprint. To his surprise, it was pretty light—maybe a few shades darker than his pale skin. He let a thin finger trace the edge of the bruise lightly before busying himself with searching the cabinets.

He opened multiple cabinets before finding what he needed: concealer. It was a near perfect tone—he and Ryan were pretty close in skin color, Ryan being a  _few_  shades lighter—and would work just fine, being stage makeup. Brendon was unsure of why Ryan still had it, or why he had it in the first place. It wasn’t his place to judge, though. He pressed it on quickly and prayed it would cover properly.

To his luck, it did. He did one last check over his appearance and grabbed a random coat from the closet (Ryan had taken the one that he had accidentally stolen from Dallon and Brendon wasn’t sure where it was. It’s not like he was going to wear it—does it look like he had a death wish?) before barreling back down the steps and out the front door.

Ryan was waiting for him, hand outstretched and smile painted on. Brendon took the aforementioned hand and they were off, Ryan holding him close, acting as a shield from the biting winds.

“Guess where we’re going,” Ryan whispered in Brendon’s ear. His breath tickled the hairs on Brendon’s sensitive neck.

“The café on 19th?” Brendon asked hopefully. He adjusted his coat so that it felt better around his chest, pulling it taut. That also served to protect him minimally from the cold. The day wasn’t as bitter as the night before—well, anything was bitter when you were sobbing your heart out, but that’s beside the point—but the air still nipped at Brendon’s exposed nose and ears. He snuggled closer to Ryan, sucking up the other man’s body heat.

“You bet!” Ryan said happily. He gripped Brendon’s hand tighter, in a more possessive manner as he spoke his next words, “I’m just doing my job to make  _you_ happy.” Brendon giggled. He didn’t respond in a verbal manner, only gripping Ryan’s hand tightly in thanks.

They walked the rest of the way in near silence, stopping ever few minutes to share breathless kisses under the hung mistletoe or fairy lights there happened to be still up. The way the light reflected in Ryan’s eyes when he smiled at Brendon made him feel better. By the time they were climbing the steps to the café, Brendon’s toes were nearly frozen in his boots and his cheeks were a rosy red. Despite noticing his obvious shivering, Ryan still chose to ask for a seat outside, like they normally do. Still, Brendon didn’t do complain.

“Don’t worry, B, we’ll get your favorite soup to warm you up,” Ryan said with a smile, giving Brendon’s shoulder a patronizing pat. Brendon nodded, teeth chattering. Ryan then guided Brendon to their table, acting as if he were a true gentleman. Brendon thanked him in a quiet voice, shivering in his seat.

When the server arrived, Ryan ordered for the both of them, which was common. Ryan usually doesn’t let Brendon make those insignificant decisions, leaving them to himself. Brendon was sort of fine with it—at least Ryan asked what he wanted most of the time—but he didn’t want to say anything about it. Some people just had their things, something that Brendon respected, and this happened to be one of Ryan’s (many).

The server left in a hurry, obviously trying to escape the cold. They sat in silence, Brendon still shivering. Ryan, for whatever reason, looked perfectly okay in his puffy vest and sweatshirt; Brendon was appropriately jealous as he desperately tried to warm his hands. Ryan sat across the wire table, a small smile gracing his lips. With his flower crown on (something he doesn’t leave the house with, ever) he looked like a golden god. Brendon shot him a blinding smile.

He was so lucky to have someone let Ryan in his life.

 _Minus the, you know, abuse,_ he thought. But was it really abuse if the person loved you like Ryan loved him? It couldn’t be, right?

“B—hey, B.” Ryan snapped his fingers in front of Brendon’s face, the loud  _crack_  echoing around the nearly-deserted café. Brendon peered up at Ryan’s expectant face. “Food’s here.” Brendon responded by giving a long whiff, grinning. He loved this place, the food was heavenly! He couldn’t wait to dig in.

“Thank you,” he said to the server graciously. The server smiled.

“You two have a good mean,” their server, a young man in his twenties, replied. For some reason, he reminded Brendon of the kind stranger Dallon. They had a similar way of speaking and a soft tone, which Brendon responded to greatly. Without warning, Ryan’s nails dug hard into his palm. Brendon whimpered. He hadn’t realized that he had been staring at the server’s retreating back. Little beads of blood began to surround Ryan’s long nails.

“What did I say about staring at other people?” Ryan said lowly. That was a dangerous sign. Brendon took a shaky breath.

“Don’t do it,” Brendon whispered, eyes screwing up in pain. “I-I’m sorry—I-I wasn’t s-staring at him…” Brendon cut himself off before he could do anymore damage. Stupid him, why couldn’t he please Ryan?

“Then who were you staring at? The ghost of Mona Lisa?” Ryan demanded. He pushed his nails farther into Brendon’s tender flesh, eliciting a whimper.

“I-I was lost in t-thought. I-I’m sorry. I-It won’t h-happen again.” Brendon hiccupped. He didn’t want to meet Ryan’s eyes, knowing that all it will be is a stone cold glare. He couldn’t handle that right now.

“It better not.” Ryan let go of Brendon’s hand, using one finger to lift up his chin, so they were eye to eye. Ryan smiled at him. “Now,  _babe_ , have some soup. It looks like your nose is about to fall right off.” Ryan leaned forward and kissed Brendon’s nose. Before Brendon had time respond to the change in tone and the feeding implications, a spoon was placed to his lips, as if he were a toddler. Brendon opened his mouth, almost waiting for the obligatory airplane noises to accompany the spoon.

Ryan wouldn’t degrade himself to such childish things, though. Despite being so possessive and jealous, like a toddler with a toy he loves.

Brendon couldn’t enjoy the soup as much as he normally did because he was too busy obsessing over the fact that the makeup might be wearing off and Ryan’s sudden mood changes. Multiple times, Brendon would put his hand up to his jaw and come away with a cream color staining his fingers. He prayed that it wouldn’t become visible, lest Ryan notice and become  _angrier_  at him. That would just  _make_  Brendon’s day.

Brendon’s back was facing the road, but as he turned to Ryan to be fed another bite (at the loving gesture of Ryan himself) he caught eye of the road. A car sped by, something that he normally didn’t take too much notice of, but this was different. He recognized the car; specifically, it was the dark red, beat-up Honda that he had accidentally ran into that morning!

Trying to cover it up as him dropping his napkin, Brendon turned in one fluid motion to get a better look at the car, exposing his bruise-covered jaw (as the makeup was beginning to wipe off) to the road. He hoped that he could—somehow—see the driver, but it was too late. He turned back to Ryan and accepted the next bite.

“What was that about?” Ryan asked a tad possessive.

“I dropped my napkin,” Brendon lied, trying to not look too affected over not seeing the driver.

Apparently, he did a well enough job since Ryan didn’t question him further over his sudden pensive expression. Small victories, right? 

 


	5. And the Plot Thickens (Mistakes Are Made)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dallon is at a crossroads about what to do. Spencer said that he could help, but did he want someone else involved when he's already handling it so poorly? 
> 
> The answer was no, but Spencer wasn't going to take that.
> 
> What has happened to Dallon's boring life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!! (unless you don't celebrate it... then i hope you had a great day.)
> 
> i've had a decent amount of time to write today so here we are. i hope that you guys enjoy this!!!! please let me know if the pacing is off or it's boring!!
> 
> ps. this was edited but i lost some of the edits so the first half might have some grammatical errors and weird words but i combed through again just in case. fair warning tho.

**From: Spencer Smith [6:45:16 PM]**

_Oh, hey, Dallon. And yeah, Ryan Ross? I was a friend of his a few years back._

 

Dallon gripped his phone tightly against his chest, trying to formulate a response to Spencer’s text. His hands were shaking and his heart was pounding out of time; waves of anxiety rolled through his body. He wasn’t sure what to say, something that happens far too much for someone who despised being out of control. 

He knew that Spencer couldn’t see him (how would he be able to?) but he still felt pressured to respond before Spencer sent another text. It felt like Spencer was staring at him expectantly from across the room.

He began to perspire and his button up felt confining; he proceeded to strip it off with haste, leaving a skin-tight white tee shirt in its place. He had no reason to be self-conscious since he was home alone. but he still felt so. (If Brendon was there he wouldn’t have  _dreamed_  of even taking off his top shirt. But, that was beside the point, since Brendon _wasn't_  there.)

Dallon dropped his phone into his lap and knotted his hands through his hair, tugging at it. The action calmed him slightly, enough so that he could begin to think of a suitable answer. 

Despite his moment of celebration over Spencer knowing about Ryan Ross, Dallon felt the regret ten-fold. It was stupid, he knew, but it felt like his whole world was crashing down again. He had a panicked feeling—as if he was going to be trapped under the wreckage of another person's life. Or that he wasn't going to have an escape.

Heck, he  _was_ trapped. The thought of Brendon Urie wouldn’t let him go.

Dallon closed his eyes and pulled his knees to his chest, trapping his phone in his lap. He laid his chin down, taking a deep, slow breath. It was going to be okay. ( _Just like you are, Weekes,_  he thought.)

Out of nowhere, his phone chimed again. He fished his phone from between his pudgy stomach and thighs to find a follow up text from Spencer. Oh, great, the one thing he was trying to avoid. Dallon realized that Spencer was one of those double-texting types.

 

**From: Spencer Smith [7:05:32]**

_Dallon, you still there, buddy?_

 

Buddy. Oh, yes, Dallon regretted involving Spencer more than the many stupid things he’s done in the past. And he’s done some stupid stuff, mind you. Who goes around called someone “buddy” when you barely know them? Sure, they were coworkers, and they were texting about non-work related things, but that didn’t warrant a “buddy”. Maybe Dallon was just out of touch with social interaction.

Or maybe Spencer was outgoing. It was most likely a bit of both.

Dallon went to answer the text in a way that revealed the least amount of information and doesn't arouse suspicion about his  _situation_.

 

**To: Spencer Smith [7:08:25]**

_Yes, I’m here. Apologies for not responding, I just have another question for you: What do you know about Ryan and is he currently seeing anyone? Thank you again._

 

Real smooth there, Weekes. Way to not arouse suspicion. As he was going to delete the text—he was being idiotic, he should just ignore Spencer from here on out and pretend this never happened—his fat thumb slipped and accidentally sent it.  _Are you kidding me?_  he thought.  _Could this day get any worse?_

The entire world was against him, it seemed. Dallon wished that he could just disappear, fade into non-existence. It’s not like there was anyone that actually cared about him—not even his own parents. Dallon threw his phone across the room and it hit the wall with a  _bang_. He wrapped his long arms around his legs and tried to focus on breathing. What was he doing? This was not how he worked.

Across the room, he heard his phone attempt to garble out a text tone. Dallon sighed and moved to get up, before sinking to the floor again. What was the point? It’s not like Spencer could do anything to help him without knowing the full story—something that Dallon didn’t want to tell. He didn’t want to weave meaningless words to tell the story of an obvious abuse case happening to a kid that Dallon, for some reason, has grown attached to.

He wouldn’t be able to. He’s not talented with words, only wordy metaphors for insignificant things. Not being able to explain a situation with perfect clarity. He wouldn’t do Brendon—with his pristine skin and heart-melting eyes—any justice, coming from his mouth. He knew that he  _had_  to do something, though. He was powerless by himself (being the weak, insipid creature that he was), which is why he  _ever_ considered texting Spencer.

“Screw it,” Dallon said loudly and dragged himself over to his phone. He read through Spencer’s text.

 

**From: Spencer Smith [7:10:34]**

_I haven’t talked to Ryan in forever, man. We were friends up until out senior year in high school, when he got… weird. He began to get controlling and hated it when I hung out with other friends. He also had a pretty bad temper, but I’m sure he’s mellowed out by now. Despite that, he was a pretty good friend. And, I think he had a boyfriend, but I’m not sure. Why are you suddenly interested them?_  

 

 _Thanks for your life story_ , Dallon thought scathingly.  _Really needed to know all of that_. 

But, Dallon got his answers. So, Ryan was a controlling, bad-tempered asshole of a guy? Great. An image of Brendon’s tear-stained, pain contorted young face popped into his head, accompanied by a figure following the brief glance he had gotten of Ryan earlier. It seemed like Brendon was getting the brunt of it. Dallon could see his beat up lip as Brendon chewed on it—

 _Stop, Weekes._   _Now’s not the time._  Dallon smacked his head to his knee, before immediately hissing in pain as he realized how pointy his knees were. He laid his head down a bit more gently.

What was he going to do? He could see what little grasp he had on the situation slipping away with each passing moment. Some part of him knew that he was being irrational, that it was going to be okay, but he didn’t want to get close to anyone.

He was afraid of friendship. There, he admitted it. Or, was it the prospect of getting close to anyone and potentially date them that had him quaking in his boots? (Not that that was an issue with Spencer. They were coworkers. It was Brendon was scared him in that prospect—even though he was dating Ryan. He hated to admit it—and tried to ignore it if he could—but he was attracted to Brendon.)

Dallon tried to answer Spencer promptly.

 

**To: Spencer Smith [7:15:23]**

_Thank you. And, it’s nothing that you should worry about; I’m handling it_.  _I’m just curious. Is his boyfriend named Brendon?_

 

After Dallon had sent it, he realized his mistake. He had  _definitely_  made Spencer curious with his “I’m handling it” line. Good going there. He fought the ever growing urge to toss himself out the window. His phone, sweaty and heavy in his hand, buzzed again.

 

**From: Spencer Smith [7:16:49]**

_Call me._

 

Dallon considered it; he truly did. Of course, that doesn’t mean he was going to call Spencer. He was simultaneously surprised and resigned to see Spencer’s text—he just didn’t want to go through the trouble of explaining verbally to Spencer what was going on. His heart was pounding out of his chest; he  _despised_  talking on the phone.

He wondered that if he ignored the text, Spencer would assume that he didn’t want to talk (he didn’t) and would proceed to leave him alone.

Of course, he was wrong. As he was going to set his phone down on the cracked leather of his couch and wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans, his phone rang.  _Are you kidding me?_  Dallon bit his tongue to not let a swear slip out. He grimaced against the metallic taste that flooded his mouth—seemed he bit too hard.

His fingers worked on their own accord and accepted the call. They gave no signal to do so to his mind, no communication to his brain, which was vehemently screaming “No! Stop!”

 _Dammit._   _What was he doing?_

“Hey, Dallon?” Spencer’s tinny voice rang out of Dallon’s phone. He took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose and held the phone up to his ear.

“Hello, Spencer,” Dallon said curtly. “How are you?”  _Mustn’t forget your manners,_ Dallon thought bitterly.  _Work him while you can_. Dallon pulled himself to his feet and began to pace his small living room, formulating what he was going to say to Spencer and how much he can omit without his message being lost.

“I’m good, but from your text, uh, what’s going on?”  _Seems like he’s going to go ahead and skip pleasantries. Great._  Dallon hoped that Spencer would go along and draw out talking about mind-numbing insubstantialities.

“Really, there’s nothing going on. I, uh, I worded my statement incorrectly.” Dallon prayed that that will be enough to divert Spencer and drive him to end the call. Though, even to himself, he sounded unconvincing with his stuttering vocals and unconfident tone. He needed to improve his acting skills, they were lacking when it mattered most.

“Yeah, right. Cut the bull. What’s going on with Ryan Ross that has you so interested? What does his boyfriend have to do with it?”

“His boyfriend is the problem,” Dallon muttered, holding the phone away from his mouth do Spencer wouldn’t hear him. He did.  _You’re getting sloppy, Weekes._ Dallon resisted the urge to slap his forehead, instead angrily running a hand through his hair. He glanced to his messy kitchen before moving to make a comforting hot chocolate.

“How so? What do you mean?” Spencer pressed, sounding mildly interested.

“Well. I’m going to give you the short version, since I don’t have time for this.” What else he was planning to do that night, he had no clue. The lie came easy to his lips as a viable excuse. Spencer voiced his agreement. “Okay, well, the night of New Year’s Eve—the 31st, in case you didn’t realize—I escaped that horrid Christmas party that Brent dragged us to…”

Dallon went on to describe what had transpired that night. He kept his descriptions strictly to the point and professional, not letting a hint of fondness or adoration escape his lips. His acting skills—before being subpar—stayed up to snuff while he told his side of the story. Spencer stayed very quiet the entire time; the only thing Dallon could hear was his occasional sighs and breathing.

Once he finished the story, a silence fell between them. Dallon leaned against the counter, phone against his ear and a mug in his hand. He took a sip of his hot chocolate. “What’s your address?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.

Dallon nearly choked on his drink. He coughed for a few seconds, before regaining his breath. “Excuse me?” he choked out, incredulous. Why did Spencer want to come over?

“What’s your address?” Spencer repeated. “I want to help you. I know how Ryan can get.”

“I’m handling it, Spencer. Seriously. I just needed to know anything about Ross and Brendon that I can. It’s okay.” Dallon crossed his fingers that Spencer would just  _drop it_. He was handling it. ( _Yeah right,_ a voice said deep in his mind,  _you’re handling it so well. One look at Ross and you go into a fit of rage. Handling it perfectly._ )

“Dallon,” Spencer said warningly. “Please, let me help you.  _Please_. I can help.” Dallon absentmindedly picked at his tee shirt, thinking.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Fine. You can come over, whatever.” Dallon fought the urge to slam his phone down on the counter. He told Spencer his address grudgingly and Spencer promised that he’ll be over in about 10 minutes. Then he hung up with no further prompting.

Dallon didn’t move away or put his phone down, even when the dial tone continued to sound out of his speakers. He wasn’t sure how the day had gotten to  _this_. Maybe his mom would be proud—he actually had a friend coming over to talk! Though, once she figured out the reason, she would revert back to her continuous and unyielding disappointment in Dallon’s “life choices”.

It’s not like she mattered in this situation.

Dallon checked the time—5 minutes before Spencer was due to show up—and realized how messy his apartment was. That wouldn’t help keep up his aloof and tidy personality, for sure. Without another moment of hesitation, he began to clean up as best as he could. Just enough to make it presentable; he didn’t care  _that_  much about Spencer’s opinion of him and his house.

 

 

As he was stowing away the last bit of scrape lyric ideas, his doorbell rang. Well, squeaked in a painful manner. It didn’t work too well and when anyone (not that it was often) rang it, it made the sound that was reminiscent of a dying whale. Dallon despised the thing but didn’t have enough money to pay to replace it. He could deal with it.

Dallon surged forward and had opened the door when he realized that he wasn’t wearing his button up. He didn’t meet Spencer’s eyes, favoring a space just above his left shoulder and felt self-conscious. He hoped that he could conspicuously slip it on soon enough. He doubted that Spencer cared all that much, but that didn’t matter.  _He_  cared.

“Hello, Spencer,” Dallon said, trying to hide the nerves from his tone. “Here, come in.” He waved Spencer in with a half-grimace. Spencer smiled at him, showing off his freakishly white, straight teeth.

“Hi,” Spencer greeted cheerfully and followed Dallon into his apartment. Once they were both in Dallon’s living room and the door had been shut, Spencer dropped his faux-cheery attitude. He adopted a more serious tone.

They were the epitome of awkward; Spencer sitting on Dallon’s old couch while Dallon stood, neither of them giving a hint of starting a productive conversation.  Dallon wanted it to end and their talk hadn’t even started.

“So,” Spencer started, trying to catch Dallon’s gaze, “I want to help you. Like, I, uh said on the phone. I know Ryan—well, I did—and I’m sure I can get  _something_  out of him. This Brendon kid sounds like he may be in trouble. No duh.”

Dallon scratched his neck, eyeing his button up that was in a pile on the floor. “No duh,” Dallon echoed without thinking. “Brendon’s in trouble. I feel like it’s my duty to help him since I stumbled upon him in the first place.” He schooled his expression to be more neutral, still not meeting Spencer’s worried look.

“Of course,” Spencer replied. “Like I said many times, I can help you. Let me. You don’t have to do everything on your own, Dallon.” Dallon swallowed hard and glanced over at his kitchen.

“Do you want hot chocolate?” Dallon echoed his words to Brendon the night before with apparent ease. This was what he was good at—changing the subject, that is. Even though he was facing away from Spencer, he could feel his burning look straight through the back of his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want hot chocolate?” Dallon repeated slowly while padding into his kitchen. He laced his fingers together, trying to draw out the moment for as long as he could.

“I mean, sure, but what does this have to do with—?”

“Do you like marshmallows?” Dallon interrupted again, digging around in his cabinets. He realized with a jolt that he had given the last few to Brendon last night. “Never mind,” he muttered, grabbing the mix and some water to boil. Behind him, he heard Spencer clamber up from the couch and make his way over to Dallon’s tiny kitchen. “Yes?” Dallon asked tersely.

“What does hot chocolate have to do with Brendon Urie being abused by Ryan Ross and your need to help him?” Spencer’s tone was light. Dallon clenched his jaw while studying the inside of his cabinet. He messed with some bottles to elongate his period on the floor.

“Everything,” Dallon said forcefully, slamming the door shut and pulling himself to his feet in one fluid motion. He turned and looked Spencer dead in the eye. “It has  _everything_  to do with it, Spencer, okay?”

Dallon wasn’t sure what he was talking about anymore, he was just going with what he felt needed to be said. Be damned if it does, be damned if it doesn’t.

“What are you talking about?” Spencer asked. He rubbed his temples, tearing his gaze away from Dallon’s long body. Dallon flushed and turned away, gripping the countertops to keep himself upright. His arms were shaking and it was getting worse each passing heartbeat. He took a deep breath.

“Alright, I don’t know,” Dallon admitted weakly. He placed the items that he had been holding onto for dear life on the counter, the clanging noise echoing around the cramped space. Spencer said nothing. They stood in silence for what felt like hours, his breathing being the only thing that he could hear clearly. It was getting louder and more ragged; he hoped that it wasn’t this loud for Spencer.

Dallon closed his eyes tightly to keep a lid on his haywire emotions.

Spencer was the one that broke the silence again. “Dallon, are you okay?” Dallon almost didn’t hear the question over the rushing in his ears.

He answered the question more truthfully than he has to even himself. “No,” he said quietly, before continuing louder. “No, but since when have I even been?” Before the words had even been formed by his cracked lips, he knew he had said too much. He clamped his mouth shut in shame. “Leave.”

“Dallon…” Spencer began.

“Leave,  _please_. Just leave me alone.” Dallon’s face is beetroot red and he covered it with his calloused hands. The embarrassment of saying something so deeply personal to a  _coworker_ , someone he  _barely_  knows outside of a work environment would plague him for many nights to come. “Leave,” he repeated. He heard Spencer move and almost let out a sigh of relief, until—

Spencer was hugging him. Strong arms encircled Dallon’s shaky frame, holding him in a tight embrace. Dallon was far from his (admittedly small) comfort zone and he didn’t like it. This is  _not_  how coworkers—virtual strangers—should act! Of course, he was the one that prompted this in the first place, though never in his wildest dreams would he ever expect Spencer to  _hug_  him, of all actions. A pat on the back (or  _leaving,_  like he requested oh-so-patiently) would have sufficed. (Oh, how the tables would turn.)

Dallon stood very still, praying for this infernal act of affection to end, so as the end the awkwardness that was destined to ensue. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate the expression—he did—it’s just that it was so  _unexpected_  and out of nowhere that Dallon was surprised. He didn’t get hugs very often, if that wasn’t evident from the get-go.

“I can help you, Dallon,” Spencer whispered. Dallon shook his head in a violent manner, glasses sliding down his nose.

“Can you fix me?” he demanded. Dallon let the question hang as he fought to move out of Spencer’s grasp. “Can you fix the fact that my parents hate me over something that I can’t control? Can you do that?” Dallon had picked up on the fact that they weren’t solely referring to Brendon’s situation and more of his own. He made that clear to Spencer as well.

Once free from Spencer’s grasp, he took half a step back. Spencer’s mouth was opening and closing, obviously forming some “comforting” words to say to Dallon. All Dallon wanted to do was stop him from speaking.

He wasn’t thinking straight, his embarrassment and rage overpowering his ability to form a coherent thought. Spencer was well on his way to speak when Dallon did something that he regretted immediately.

He kissed Spencer. Right on the mouth. It was cold and unfeeling and just a way to shut him up. The thing was, Dallon didn’t have any semblance of romantic feelings for Spencer. Not one bit; they were just acquaintances and nothing more. Spencer didn't have time to respond.

Dallon pulled away less than a heartbeat later, a look of horror gracing his face. He didn’t mean to do that. That was the last thing that was on his mind.

That is why Dallon detested thought-numbing emotions. They clouded your judgment and allow you to do stupid things like  _kissing your coworkers when you’re pining over another guy_. “I—I d-didn’t m-mean to kiss you,” Dallon choked out, holding his hands up. “I-It was an accident.” Dallon’s vision was starting to darken around the edges, it was too much. He glanced back up at Spencer.

Spencer had an expression of shock, concern, red-hot embarrassment, and something that Dallon knew very well: pity. He clenched his jaw, gave one last look at Spencer and stormed out of the kitchen, making a beeline for his bedroom. The door was open so he crossed the threshold easily, slamming it so hard behind him that the walls rattled.

Dallon slid down the door, head in his hands. He heard Spencer call his name a moment later, muffled by the wood of the door.

He ignored him. He was shaking too hard to hear himself think and he felt like his entire world was coming to ruins around him.  _What has he done?_  He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Lo and behold, a second later Dallon’s mouth was flooded with the bitter, metallic taste of blood. 

He deserved it.

It never occurred to him that he would care so much about potentially losing a friendship, but he knew that it wasn’t just that; it was the buildup of the last—was it only a day? —day. Every emotion he felt came crashing down in one unholy mess, right here in his crappy apartment. Spencer was unlucky enough to be there at the most inopportune time.

Dallon didn’t sob. No, he didn’t pull a Brendon and sob his heart out to the rushing of his ears. He sat in silence, greeted only by his ragged, heavy breaths. And, once he had calmed down some, he let out two or three tears, just enough to dampen a square on his jeans. Nothing more.

He stayed still for an unspecified amount of time, alone with his thoughts. He thought that he'd heard thumping outside of the door, followed by the breathing of another man. He assumed that it was Spencer, but knew that he had probably soon after he stormed out.

Dallon almost regretted leaving Spencer out there, knowing that it wouldn't have been as awkward if he had just talked it out. That wasn't how he rolled, though. Bring on the awkwardness.

Soon enough, Dallon fell asleep with his head tucked between his knees, back flush to the door. Something that he didn’t hear was the opening or closing of his front door. 

He didn’t realize that Spencer never left. 


	6. In Which Dallon is Embarrassed (Constantly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The floor creaked again, which is when Dallon realized it wasn't him since he wasn't moving. He sucked in a breath, thinking that maybe someone had broken into his apartment. Wouldn’t that be great? He yawned and turned back towards his shut bedroom door; a possible intruder didn't faze him. “If you’re planning on it, come in and kill me. I’ve made enough mistakes to warrant being murdered,” he called.
> 
> The noise stopped. Silence reigned, minus his own heavy breathing.
> 
> Dallon shook his head —he sort of hoped that he would've been murdered—and ambled into his bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys !! i hope y'all enjoy me making poor dal miserable. i hope there was some character development ??? idk. next chapter we see more of brendon !!! (and it's when things really start to pick up!)

Dallon slipped back into consciousness at a snail's pace, like most mornings. His heart was beating out of his chest though he couldn't remember his dream, which was the cause of the increased heart rate. He didn't bother opening his eyes, knowing that all that would greet him was dark jeans in an even darker room. There were no windows in his room.

He could tell that his legs were intertwined underneath him and his head was tucked between his knees. The unfortunate placing of his head led to an annoying crick in his neck. He regretted falling asleep in that position, though he couldn't remember why didn’t he just move to his bed?

Dallon shifted on his abused tailbone, the wood below him creaking under his weight. He lifted his head up, eyes still closed tight and let out a quiet groan. Outside the door, he heard something rustle but chalked it down to an old building doing old-building things. 

It’s not like anyone was in his apartment except for him.

Idly, he wondered  _why_  he was on the floor in the first place. Then, without warning, memories of the night before came flooding back. Dallon wished he hadn’t opened the floodgates, although he knew it would have happened soon enough.

He—He  _kissed_  Spencer. On the lips! What happened to his  _dignity_ , what happened to appearing out-of-touch and cold? What happened to him dutifully attempting to dance around Spencer? What happened to  _Brendon_? He had too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. 

He ran through the events of the night before and came to the conclusion that it was all his fault. Something that doesn't happen too often.

For a moment, though, he blamed Spencer for being too kind to his undeserving ass. He blamed him for trying to comfort Dallon when he was upset. He blamed Spencer for his own misfortunes and allowing him to feel comfortable enough to divulge how he truly felt. He blamed Spencer for  _caring_  about him when that was the last thing he should have done.

Unjustified rage poured through him like lava through his veins. His eyes shot open and his vision tinged red in the darkness. It was all he could see for a few seconds before he pulled himself to his feet. The world was off kilter and he nearly pitched forward in his haste. His vision returned to normal as he calmed down and thought through the situation.

The floor creaked again, which is when Dallon realized it  _wasn't_  him since he wasn't moving. He sucked in a breath, thinking that maybe someone had broken into his apartment. Wouldn’t that be great? He yawned and turned back towards his shut bedroom door; a possible intruder didn't faze him. “If you’re planning on it, come in and kill me. I’ve made enough mistakes to warrant being murdered,” he called.

The noise stopped. Silence reigned, minus his own heavy breathing.

Dallon shook his head —he sort of hoped that he would've been murdered—and ambled into his bathroom. He had the intent to splash water on his burning face. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Spencer’s look of confusion and shock after he kissed him. The idea of seeing him at work made him feel physically sick.

The only reason why he needed Spencer was to help him find Brendon and help him, but it was obvious he messed that up. He pinched his wrist as a way to rid the pent up anger he held towards himself.

 _Idiot_. He didn’t bother turning on the light—no need to see his face, he knew it well enough anyway—and just turned on the tap. The water was icy cold against his burning flesh, which he welcomed graciously. He dried off his face with robotic movements and left the bathroom, mentally preparing himself to whatever was outside his door. He pushed the door open to find... Spencer?

Dallon stuffed his hand in his mouth to avoid gasping. Spencer was sprawled out on his floor, fast asleep, his hair fanned out beneath him. He was curled up like a child. It was obvious that he had fallen asleep while laying against Dallon’s door. He tip-toed past Spencer and padded into his kitchen, trying to think of what to do.

Why had he stayed?

The last thing he expected was for Spencer to stay. Legitimately, he should have left the moment Dallon had swept from the room in embarrassment. Dallon placed his elbows on his counter and watched the morning light filter through the half-drawn shades. It was already 7:00 AM and he and Spencer were going to be late for work if they didn’t leave soon.

Not that he cared all that much. Work was the last thing on his mind. Besides, Pete and Joe could maybe fill in for them. Dallon wished he had their numbers.

 _Back to the task at hand, Weekes_ , he thought, throwing a glance over at the sleeping Spencer. Maybe he should cover him with a blanket? Agreeing that that was a decent idea. Dallon grabbed the blanket from the back of his couch and laid it over Spencer's sleeping body. (His stomach dropped when he realized that the blanket was the same one he had covered Brendon with.) 

With one last look at Spencer, Dallon went to make breakfast for the two of them. He hoped it would work as a sort of peace-offering (and apology) for kissing him and running with no explanation. He didn't have high hopes Spencer accepting it, though.

Dallon would rather say that he doesn’t have romantic feelings for Spencer (which  _is_  true) than admit that he had more-than-friendly feelings for someone who isn’t even his friend. (Which is also true, despite the fact that Dallon normally isn’t one to fall in love with strangers.)

He started on a pancake mix, hoping that Spencer liked pancakes. (Who doesn't?) It was pretty much the only thing that Dallon could successfully cook without burning his apartment down. And, he was rather good at it, if he had anything to say about it.

The mixing and cooking took his mind off the situation at hand—and his embarrassment—a fact that he was eternally grateful for. If he were to keep running the moment over in his head, he was afraid that he might spontaneously combust. It was a common feeling. 

 

 

Humming merrily while flipping the last of the pancakes, he was almost shocked out of his socks to hear Spencer get up off the floor with a groan. He hushed his humming immediately and stood stock-still, compared to his earlier swaying. He heard Spencer shuffle his way over, yawning. “D’llon?” Spencer asked sleepily. Dallon didn’t turn around.

“Yes?” he asked, moving to flip the pancake before it burned.

“Don’t we have work?” Spencer’s tone was conversational, as if it was a normal thing for him to sleep on Dallon’s floor overnight. Dallon cringed as he heard Spencer pop his back with a sigh. He still wasn’t facing Spencer, which was a conscious effort.

“Yes,” Dallon replied, dutifully keeping his gaze focused on the pan. He was hyper aware of Spencer standing mere feet behind him, sleepy-eyed and worn out from a night spent on his wood floor. Dallon didn’t expand any further on his statement, rather choosing to search for some syrup.

“Uh… shouldn’t we, uh, get going?” Spencer’s voice had a cautious edge to it, as if he was waiting for Dallon to explode again. He had the right to, since Dallon had actually kissed him the night before and proceeded to run. Dallon’s cheeks were flaming red from thinking about his mistake. “Dallon?” he prompted again when Dallon didn’t respond.

“Can you ask Wentz and Trohman to cover for us?” Dallon said after a moment, busying himself with moving dishes to his tiny dining room table, back still firmly facing Spencer. He smoothed down his wrinkled tee shirt with a sigh, almost splattering it with maple syrup. "Dammit," he muttered. It was a weirdly domestic situation.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Spencer muttered and went off in search of his phone. Dallon let out a sigh of relief, pushing a hand through his hair. He watched Spencer’s retreating back, smile half-cocked. The smell of maple syrup and pancakes lifted his mood while he was stuck waiting for Spencer to come back. 

He did so within a minute, phone in hand. Dallon didn’t meet his eyes. “Called them,” Spender announced, standing next to Dallon, who stiffened. “They’ll cover for us, but we have to take a few of their shifts next week. Is that okay?”

Dallon thought about all of the things he didn’t have to do and then his current situation with Brendon (well, and now Spencer too, he guessed). “Fair trade,” Dallon agreed with a sigh, before taking a step back from Spencer. He lightly swung his hips to the tune of a song stuck in his head and made his way over to the table, calling over his shoulder, “I made food.”

“For me?” Spencer asked, an eyebrow lifted at Dallon.

“Well, yes. And me, of course,” Dallon said dryly. He sat down at the table and grabbed a plate. He watched as Spencer made his way over, unsure if Dallon was kidding or not. “Take some,” Dallon insisted, cheeks suspiciously flushed. He wasn’t used to having people over for breakfast—and that included coworkers that he kissed by mistake. (Not that that has happened in the past, of course.)

Spencer took the offered plate and pancakes before taking his seat across from Dallon. Neither of them spoke a word, only eating in relative silence. Dallon’s heart pounded out of his chest the entire time, his hands were shaking so badly from the embarrassment that he could barely push in a bite.

Spencer, like always it seemed, broke the silence. “Dallon,” he began, laying down his fork gently. “I want to talk about last night.” Dallon bristled.

“Well, I don’t,” Dallon muttered. “It was an accident, Spencer. I-I’m sorry. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

“ _Dallon_ ,” Spencer stressed, “I don’t care about that. What I care about is that you’re obviously not okay—like you had so  _kindly_  said to me before… y’know—and that it’s shielding you from the main purpose of me being here: to help you with Brendon. You care about him, a lot. I won’t pry, but…” he trailed off.

“But what?” Dallon said tersely, gripping his fork, his knuckles turning white from the strain. “What is there to add? Yes, I care about Brendon, but it’s only because of how horrid his situation is. Nothing more.” He lied straight through his teeth.

Spencer studied him closely. “You’re lying,” he stated simply, lips upturned in a smirk. That only further enraged Dallon, who fought the urge to stand up and yell. Yes, he was angry even though Spencer was right. (Annoyingly so.)

“And if I am, what does it matter to you?” Dallon twirled his fork for something to do, again not meeting Spencer’s burning gaze. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t admitting his feelings forthright, but it felt good to annoy Spencer and get a rise out of him. It burned some of his nervous energy. Though he already  _kissed_  Spencer and told him one of his deeper feelings, so admitting his feelings wouldn't be _too_  big of a deal. Of course, he had to stop avoiding those feelings in the first place. 

Spencer interrupted his train of thought.

“You’re my  _friend_ , Dallon. Friends help each other and  _trust_ —do you know what that word is, trust? —each other. Trust me, since you kissed me and all.” Spencer was joking, Dallon could tell, but it didn't fail to irritate him further.

“It was an  _accident_ ,” Dallon said with force, not thinking straight. What he said next he regretted immediately. “You’re not my friend, Spencer Smith,” Dallon hissed. “You’re just a coworker that happened to be intertwined with this messed up situation that has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry I ever called you.” Dallon pulled himself to his feet and began to pace, breathing heavy. He heard Spencer push back his creaky chair and clamber to his feet.

“Maybe we’re not friends, Dallon, but this isn’t how you treat people who tried to care about you,” Spencer said calmly, running a hand through his messy hair. “I hope that you’re okay being alone. At this pace, you’ll never help Brendon, y’know. Good luck with that.” Without further ado, Spencer spun on his heel and stalked out of the apartment. As the door was half shut, he heard: “And I hope you realize what a douche you are!”

Dallon sunk down into Spencer’s abandoned chair, head in his hands. It seemed like he was in that position a lot recently. He wasn’t sure what do now, though; Spencer had left—taking what little things he had brought with him (a small bag full of God-knows-what and his phone) —so Dallon didn’t have someone to assist him. What had he done?

He always screwed things up, without fail. Why should he even try and help Brendon, since it most likely will end up with him being beaten up by Ryan, or panicking and leaving? He  _needed_  Spencer here to keep him grounded and focused. Huh, he never thought that he’d say that; relying on someone... He tapped his chin.

 

 

 

Dallon didn’t move from the chair for what felt like hours. He kept his head down, massaging his aching temples, trying to think of what to do from here. He was so screwed. Time ticked by at a snail’s pace, the clock on the wall chiming ever so often, reminding Dallon of how pathetic he was.

He considered calling Spencer to apologize, but his pride was too wounded. Dallon felt the urge to punch himself, he couldn’t suck it up to apologize, not even for a kid that was being abused. What was wrong with him? He reached down blindly—it was now maybe 2 or 3 hours after Spencer left—and found his hand in a puddle of syrup.

“Christ,” Dallon hissed, inspecting his hand. He forced himself to get out of the wooden chair to wash his hand off. He groaned as his back popped. After doing so and drying his hands, he glanced out of the window out of habit. Oh boy, was he glad that he did.

Below his apartment building—which was on the third floor and there was a window that faced the main road—there was a couple, one of whom who looked familiar, even in Dallon’s sleep-deprived state.

 _Brendon_. Holding hands with who Dallon assumed to be his abusive boyfriend, Ryan. Their hands were swinging and Dallon could see that Brendon was laughing at a joke that Ryan had told. He debated opening the window to maybe catch a snippet of their conversation, before deciding that was really creepy.

What does he have to lose, though? Dallon sunk to his knees and pulled the window open. He was greeted by a blast of icy air, but ignored that and focused—eyes watering—on the pair below him. Brendon’s musical laugh carried up and Dallon let an involuntary smile grace his face, on the contrary to his current situation.

The pair paused just below his window and Ryan placed a kiss to Brendon’s lips. They looked like a stereotypical loving couple. Dallon didn’t want to admit it, but a rush of pure jealousy swarmed his gut, making him feel ill. He gripped the window frame with a grimace. 

His jealous strike ended almost immediately when he watched as Ryan took a step back and slapped Brendon’s wrists. Dallon had no clue why they were suddenly acting like that; just a minute ago they were acting in love. Had Brendon done something?

Dallon furrowed his brow. Their voices, carried, for his luck so he heard what Ryan said next: “Brendon, what did I say about your hands in public?” Ryan sounded like he was speaking to a 5-year-old.

He heard Brendon’s muttered response: “Above the waist.” He sounded resigned. “I-I’m sorry, Ryan. I won’t let it happen again.” To Dallon, it sounded like this was something that occurred frequently; the apology sounded scripted. He bit his tongue.

“Good,” Dallon heard Ryan say. “Now, let’s go home.” Brendon nodded in response and let Ryan hold his hand again. Dallon watched as he forced a smile onto his face as they walked off, hand in hand. Dallon shut his window, hard. He had heard enough. What kind of person treats their boyfriend like they’re 5?

(Well, Ryan, obviously. It was a rhetorical question, dammit.)

Dallon shivered despite himself. He rubbed his chilled hands, thinking of what he was going to do next. The whole situation with Spencer had blinded him from what he was trying to accomplish: getting Brendon away from his abuser. Brendon was still out there (obvious from him  _just_  seeing them) and could be hurt right at that moment, mere feet away from Dallon. Dallon ran an angry hand through his hair.

He was better than this. He could apologize to Spencer for snapping and suck up his pride, for Brendon’s sake. Yes, it would all be for Brendon, so he could save face. The abuse occurring to Brendon Urie was unshakably—undeniably—real and it seemed like it was up to Dallon to help him. (He could be delusional, taking on this case when he could just drop it and live his life. That wasn’t an option now especially since getting Spencer involved.)

The chair creaked in time with him leaning back, head once again placed in his hands. What was he going to say? Hell, he didn’t even know where his phone was. He raised his head to peer around the (admittedly tiny) room to find—his phone, right in front of him.

“There you are, God,” he muttered, grabbing his with his left hand. “Where were you all the times up to now?” Rather than continue to slander God, he scrolled through his contacts (all 7 of them, 2 being emergency services and the vet for his old cat) to find Spencer’s. Instead of pressing it immediately, Dallon took the time to glance back out the window.

 _I look like I’m in a music video,_ Dallon thought dryly, fingering the holes on the bottom of his phone. He snapped out of his daze and hit  _call_  before he could talk himself out of it. The dial tone rang for a few seconds before he heard a  _click_  on the other line.

“Y’ello, Spencer Smith.” Dallon took a shaky breath, holding the phone away from his ear.

“Spencer, I’m sorry,” Dallon said quickly before Spencer could say anything else. “I’m really sorry. I-I have a problem with, uh, trusting people.”

Silence. Static. Dallon waited for a response, sweat breaking out over his clammy forehead. God, he hated talking on the phone.

“Dallon?” Spencer asked, voice garbled by Dallon's crap phone. Dallon could hear the confusion in his tone. He stood up and padded into his kitchen, holding his breath. He shut his eyes and leaned against the counter with a sigh.

“Yes, it’s me. Like I just said, I’m sorry for how I treated you, uh, this morning.” Had it really only been 4 hours since Spencer stormed out? “I’m not myself.” He hoped that Spencer would pick up that he was apologizing for  _the kiss_  too; the last thing he wanted to do was address it directly.

“I can see that, Dallon.” Spencer’s tone was incredibly dry. Dallon prayed that it meant that he was accepting Dallon’s, albeit sort of crap, apology. “Thanks for apologizing, though. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah.” Dallon let out a breath. “D-Do you still want to help with Brendon?” he asked, his voice small. Dallon felt like  _he_  was 5, making sure that his friends still wanted to be friends. Heck, that was like current-Dallon, with his multitude of insecurities. He could almost hear the half-smile in Spencer’s voice when he answered.

“Of course.” Dallon balled up the towel next to him and squeezed it tightly to release some still-present nerves. It almost seemed too easy; in his past, apologizing barely did anything. Yet here he was, about to go help a kid with a guy that deserved more than his measly apology. He didn’t voice this opinion aloud, lest he ruin their cordial agreement.

“O-Okay.” Dallon wasn’t sure why his voice was shaky. “Do you want to meet up somewhere—soon, today perhaps—so we can discuss this all.” He took a deep breath. Might as well reveal more of  _his_  side of the story and  _try_  to trust Spencer. He just hoped that Spencer wouldn’t turn on him. “I-I, well, I can tell you more, if you want, I-I guess.”

Spencer barked out a laugh. “Okay. When and where?”

Dallon thought back to where he first saw Ryan and Brendon together. “The café on 19th? Y’know, the sorta fancy one?”  _This sounds like a date, crap._  “Not a date,” he continued quickly, “but at 12:30?”

“Sounds great,” Spencer replied with a laugh. “Thanks, Dallon. I’ll see you then?”

Dallon felt like he was going to pass out from talking on the phone for this long. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”  _Click._ Dallon sighed and sunk to the floor, phone in hand. Well, it seemed like Spencer accepted his apology, but why did he still feel bad? Spencer also accepted the apology with surprising speed, like, what in the world? Who does that?

He had a shoddy feeling about trusting Spencer; he knew that he was a good guy—kind, and all that bull—but still, even the nicest of people turned on Dallon eventually. Hopefully, as soon as they rescue Brendon ( _And he falls gracefully into my arms, a swell of passionate music filling his ears as he leans in for a_ —Dallon cut off his thoughts), it will go back to how they originally were. One could hope.

The clock chimed 12 PM. Dallon looked up, pursing his lips.

Time to get ready.

 


	7. It's Hammered Home That Ryan is an Not a Good GUy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was okay, though, since Ryan loved Brendon and it was for his own good. But, did Brendon actually believe that anymore? Did he believe that Ryan loved him? His belief was slowly fading with each passing day and, frankly, it scared him. He wanted Ryan to love him—he craved the feeling of knowing that Ryan loved him. Without it, who would he be? A husk of a young adult with dreams he never can reach?
> 
> Ryan was his everything!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay 2 chapters in 2 days??? you betcha. this fic is so fun to write and i can't wait to finish! i hope y'all enjoy this rather... dramatic chapter. it's not quite as long as the others (just breaking 3.3k) but i hope that it's enjoyable nonetheless.
> 
> next update should be within the next two days i hope!!!!

The bedroom was pitch black, the only light emitting was from Brendon’s half dead iPod. He wasn’t paying any attention to it anymore, rather choosing to stare blankly at the wall in front of him. There wasn't anything to focus on, though Brendon didn't care all that much. The room was dark.

The blinds were firmly closed, blocking any outside light. It’s not like the window provided a good view of the outside world—all that he would see would be a dirty brick wall. That image wouldn’t do much to ease Brendon’s rampant anxiety. So, a dark room it was. (He realized that he could just flip on the light, but he didn't have the energy to search for the switch.)

It was evening and Ryan was busy with the shop, acting like Mr. Congeniality to whoever was attempting to buy flowers. There had been a steady stream of business for most of the evening, so Brendon wasn't allowed to come down and hang out with Ryan. That was okay with him—he didn’t want to go through the trouble to recover the healing bruise on his face. It was a yellow-purple now, standing out more starkly against his pale skin. Brendon would need to apply an inordinate amount of concealer to cover it at this point, an effort he didn't want to make.

He would rather be alone with his thoughts. Though, maybe it would be nice to spend some time downstairs with Ryan. Around Ryan he would be forced to put up a front of faux-happiness, thus distracting him from how he was truly feeling. Anything to block the barrage of doubts and insecurities he was feeling at that point.

Brendon dug his shaking hands into the soft, flowery comforter that covered their bed. He tried to calm his raging anxiety, but thinking about Ryan in any situation only served to heighten his miserable feeling. Thinking about the comforter drug up memories of happier times, like when they had bought it. Brendon missed that point in their relationship—they were so much happier. A gentle tug on his hair pulled him out of the memory.

He just wanted Ryan to be proud of him. Ryan already loved him— _right?_ —so, all he needed was for him to be proud of Brendon. Maybe that would remove Brendon's feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness in their relationship.

An ache built behind Brendon’s temples just thinking about Ryan. The darkness of the room seemed to worsen it. He couldn’t even see a foot in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the bed, curled up. Brendon longed to pull open the curtains and coax in any late-evening winter light but knew it would do nothing for his current mental state. He didn’t move to get up off the bed.

He wished that he had gotten Dallon’s phone number. 

Yes, he knew that Ryan would actually skin him alive if he mentioned Dallon again. But, Brendon, after the outing earlier that day and the café date the day before, couldn’t seem to get Dallon off of his mind. He barely remembered what Dallon looked like—if his memory served to be correct, he was tall and handsome. Though, what Brendon focused on was his high-quality affinity for comforting people. It was a quality that Brendon admired. Idly, Brendon wondered if Dallon thought about him after he left. (He hoped so.)

 _Don’t be stupid,_  he thought, laying a hand on his (rather large) forehead.  _Why would he be thinking about_ you? _A pathetic kid that he found sobbing on the street. He was just being kind._  But Brendon couldn’t. The way that he treated Brendon was so different from Ryan that he welcomed the change with open arms. He wished that he could go back to thank him properly and let him know how much it meant to Brendon that he actually took him in for the night.

Dallon didn’t  _have_ to. He could’ve done his best to calm Brendon down—or even just kept walking, Brendon hadn’t noticed him until he had said something! —and left. Brendon would’ve been fine. ( _You would have frozen to death,_  a little voice said. It sounded like his mom, a fact that made him feel ever-so-slightly more depressed.  _Ryan shouldn’t have done that_. He dropped the thought; he had deserved the punishment.) 

Gratefulness was what Brendon felt for Dallon’s gesture. He hoped to return it one day. 

Brendon hissed as he shifted his legs; they were asleep and his movement spurred the pins and needles feeling. Deciding the best way to calm down was to lay down, he stretched out like a starfish over the top covers. He savored the moment of pure childishness, knowing that Ryan didn’t like it when he acted like that. A giggled slipped past his lips and he wished for the days when he and Ryan were okay, and he could freely act how he wanted around his boyfriend.

It was okay, though, since Ryan loved Brendon and it was for his own good. But, did Brendon actually believe that anymore? Did he believe that Ryan loved him? His belief was slowly fading with each passing day and, frankly, it scared him. He wanted Ryan to love him—he  _craved_  the feeling of knowing that Ryan loved him. Without it, who would he be? A husk of a young adult with dreams he never can reach?

Ryan was his  _everything._

Brendon sighed and shut his eyes again. It was quiet and the only thing that he could hear was the thumping of his heart. The few heart beats that it stayed that quiet were about as peaceful as Brendon had felt in a long time. He loved it.

Suddenly, in the shop below, the pristine silence was broken. He could hear raised voices—Ryan’s in particular. He wasn’t close enough to the stairs to clearly hear what was going on and he didn’t risk eavesdropping. He  _knew_  that Ryan would find out eventually and that was something he didn’t want to be held accountable for. 

He shut his eyes tightly and tried to listen as best he could, again only picking up Ryan’s distinct high-pitched yell. Brendon was extremely curious at  _who_  Ryan was yelling at, though he was glad it wasn’t him for once. 

The other party there wasn’t yelling, it seemed, since Brendon could only hear Ryan. They were remaining calm in the face of hurricane-Ryan and Brendon commended them; Ryan had a way with words that seemed to always get under people’s skin—Brendon's included. 

Though, Brendon had a too large need for self-perseveration to even  _think_ of yelling back. He only did it once and regretted it for years to come. Ryan could be downright  _cruel_  if he so pleased. The other party in the argument downstairs must have felt similar to Brendon.

Again, Brendon was normally on the receiving end of the aforementioned cruelty. He was just glad that it wasn’t directed at him, this time around. Brendon placed his head back on his pillow with a sigh, focusing his attention back to the voices downstairs, desperately trying to pick up _anything_  of interest. He considered opening the door but felt it was too obvious. Ryan would notice those minute details; that's something that he loved about Ryan—his attention to detail.

Another minute or so passed until Brendon heard something that peaked his interest:  _his_  name. “You stay away from Brendon!” he heard Ryan scream, voice breaking from stress. Brendon arched an eyebrow and tried to hear anything other tidbits. Simultaneously he prayed that this wouldn’t come back to bite him in the butt later (by Ryan, of course). Deep down, Brendon  _knew_  that Ryan would somehow spin this to be his fault.

He tried to brace himself, stomach clenching anxiously. He bit his already abused lip to hold back a miserable moan. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to live with Ryan anymore. Everything that he felt was contradictory. One moment everything was okay with Ryan, the next all he wanted to do was run away and never look back. He hated it.

Yes, Brendon still felt undoubtedly indebted to Ryan for removing him for his gay-hating family (who abused him in their own way), but Brendon  _knew_  that Ryan was technically abusing him.  _But,_ a part of him thought desperately,  _it’s not abuse if he loves you and is doing it for your own good_.

Out loud, he mumbled a response. “What if he doesn’t love me?” The thought physically pained him to say, but he knew that there was a chance that it was true. “What if he doesn’t,” Brendon repeated in a broken whisper.

He felt tears spring to his eyes and angrily wiped them away, rolling over to bury his head in his pillow. His iPod was still next to him and he debated texting basically his only friend outside of Ryan, Jon Walker.

Since he didn’t have an actual cell phone, he had an iPod, which he just used for music and texting Jon. It was a special case with Jon; Ryan was a jealous person and despised Brendon talking to anyone that wasn’t him for more than an hour or so. The savior of their friends was the fact that Jon had a wife, so Ryan knew that he wouldn’t try and hit on Brendon. Or, that was the reason Brendon was told. He had an inkling that it was something deeper, though he didn't risk pressing Ryan any further, lest he took back his allowance for Jon.

There were rules attached, of course, but most of the time Brendon was free to speak to Jon. They couldn’t talk about anything bad regarding Ryan, though, because Ryan read through their messages “for Brendon’s safety”. 

At least Jon would distract Brendon from overthinking the situation with Ryan.

Brendon had decided that he was going to text Jon and just had started to reach for his phone when the door opened. He shut his eyes again, placing a hand over them to shield the light away. He had been too busy debating whether to text Jon or not to notice that the yelling had stopped downstairs.

He should have, since Ryan was visibly fuming, standing in the bedroom doorway. Brendon was worried that he might pop a blood vessel or steam might  _actually_  rise from his head.

“Ryan?” Brendon asked cautiously, placing his iPod back down. He tried to look as innocent as possible against Ryan’s burning gaze. Instinctively, he curled upon himself, pulling his knees to his chest and sitting up slightly. Ryan appeared unamused.

“Brendon,” he said, teeth gritted. Ryan took a step closer to Brendon, still not fully out of the door frame. It seemed to Brendon that he was trying to put a lid on his anger, but Brendon tried to prepare himself nonetheless. Ryan was slowly winding up and the fight that had occurred downstairs didn't help. A day hasn't passed by for over a year that Ryan hadn't gotten mad at Brendon at least twice, despite Brendon trying his best to appease him.

“Y-Yes?” Brendon cursed himself for stuttering. He shouldn’t show weakness; Ryan would take advantage of it the best he could.

“I swear to  _God_  that I told you to  _never_ contact that  _Dallon Weekes_ —” He spit the name like it was snake venom to his tongue “—again. But did you listen to me? No. There they were, in my shop,  _concerned_ for you. Only  _I_  can be concerned for you.” Brendon started to put the pieces together; it seemed like Dallon had come to the shop and talk to Ryan. That would explain the yelling.

“Wait, w-what?” Brendon spluttered. “I-I didn’t contact him, Ry!” He was thoroughly confused. What was Ryan on about? Why did he come to the conclusion that Brendon had contacted Dallon? 

“Then, like I so kindly stated before, why was he in the shop just a few minutes ago, with another man, asking about you? Why were they concerned about you? Why did they think I am abusing you?  _Please_ ,” Ryan’s voice had taken a sickly sweet—dangerous—edge to it, “inform me.  _Now_. And don’t you ‘Ry’ me!”

Tears sprang to Brendon’s eyes. “I-I don’t know!” he wailed, before quieting at Ryan’s withering glare, plugging up his emotional tone. “I swear on my  _life_  that I never tried to contact him! Please believe me!” 

Brendon scooted back on their bed until his back was flush to the wall; he head thumped against it in his hurry. Ryan was still stood in the doorway, hands on his hips. To Brendon, he looked ethereal—despite being mad as all hell—with the hallway light illuminating him from behind. 

“Hah, you don’t know anything, my  _ass_. Brendon,  _don’t lie to me,_ ” Ryan spit out, taking another step forward, staring down Brendon’s shaking form with a hint of disgust.

“I-I’m n-not lying, Ryan.” Brendon was beginning to get nervous even though he was in no way guilty. He had been right, though. Ryan was attempting to find a way to spin this situation so it seemed to be all Brendon’s fault. It’s not like he asked for Dallon to come and talk to Ryan—far from it, in fact! He left with no intent of having Dallon step in. “ _Believe me!_ ” he cried desperately.

Before Brendon’s unblinking eyes, Ryan moved swiftly across the room. He shut the door behind him, plunging them back into near-complete darkness. Brendon held his breath—the idea of not being able to see what Ryan was going to do to him scared him to no end. IN the dark, Ryan could do so much more.

When Ryan was mad he tended not to think about what he was doing, and that was dangerous. A Ryan who wasn’t thinking was a Ryan that could do serious damage. To Brendon, to be specific.

Brendon nearly fell out of the bed as he heard a hiss to his left. “Bren,” Ryan said quietly, voice taking on a more… soft edge. Brendon, against his will, relaxed minutely. It was going to be okay, right? Ryan wasn’t mad anymore. “Bren. Please tell me, what did you tell Dallon that night? I know you left out some details… I could see it on your face. Tell me, I promise it’ll be okay.” Brendon bit his tongue.

“W-What do you mean?” he stuttered. “I didn’t tell him any—oh.” It was in that moment that Brendon realized his fatal mistake. He didn’t have vivid memories of New Year's Eve—he tried to block most of it out from pain—but he knew what Ryan was referring to.

“Yes, yes,” Ryan purred in his left ear. Brendon jumped as he felt Ryan’s soft finger run up and down his arm in a comforting manner. “You know. Tell me, now.” Brendon could almost taste the underlying venom in his tone. “I love you still, Brendon. Tell me.”

“I-I w-wasn’t th-thinking straight when I said that y-you had locked me o-out, Ryan, I-I swear. I-I just wanted t-to make y-you happy,” Brendon stuttered out, like verbal diarrhea. He was shaking heavily, with Ryan’s fingers still tracing his arm menacingly. “I-I’m so s-sorry.” He tried to hide his face, not looking towards where he knew Ryan was, smirking at Brendon’s failure.

“You weren’t… thinking straight, of course.” Ryan’s voice was like silk; Brendon shivered. Without warning, Ryan’s (long) nails dug straight into Brendon’s thin arm, eliciting a high-pitched gasp from him. Ryan didn’t pull away, rather pushing his nails deeper into Brendon’s arm with (what Brendon assumed) an evil grin. “But, why would you try and compromise our situation. Aren’t you… grateful for me being in your life?”

Brendon knew he had to tread carefully. “Ryan, of course. You’re my light— _ouch_. I-I l-love you,” he added for the best effect. The words were like cotton in his mouth, though. With every passing second, he felt his trust in Ryan diminish. “I  _promise_ it was an accident.”

“I love you too, Bren,” Ryan said sweetly, finally removing his fingers from Brendon’s aching arm. He let out a premature sigh of relief. Brendon resisted the urge to grip his arm against his chest to protect it from any more abuse by Ryan. “But I don’t believe you.” Brendon's eyes went wide.

“Ryan-Ryan p-please!” Brendon begged. He shut his eyes against the pounding of his heart; it’s not like Ryan could see him, anyway. “P-Please forgive me.  _Please._ ” 

Brendon wanted Ryan’s acceptance more than he wanted air in that moment. It was to make sure that he would survive the night without Ryan throwing him out or potentially killing him. If he knew that Ryan forgave him, then he could breathe easy. To ease his conscious for the time being, he convinced himself that Ryan wouldn’t have the gall to kill another human being.

Ryan was quiet for a terrifying amount of time. Brendon tried to control his breathing, lest he alerted Ryan of his panic. When Ryan finally responded, Brendon withheld a sigh of complete relief. “Bren, I forgive you. But, first, can you do me a favor?”

Brendon was so filled with relief that he agreed immediately. It wouldn’t be anything bad since Ryan just apologized, right? “Of course, Ry. What do you need?”

“Can you…” Ryan trailed off, thinking. Brendon waited with bated breath. “Can you shine the light from your iPod on your face?” Brendon didn’t want to think about what a weird request that was—Ryan probably just wanted to kiss him or see him clearly since they were cloaked in the darkness of the room. Brendon nodded hesitantly.

“Of course,” he repeated and reached for his iPod, nervously turning it on. Without hesitation, he flipped the flashlight on and pointed it at his face. The light blinded him for a second, so he didn’t see the sickening grin on Ryan’s face. A heartbeat passed. 

Without warning, suddenly the only thing that he could see was Ryan’s fist, then, the spurt of blood that followed.

_CRACK._

Brendon felt his nose crumble under the force of Ryan’s punch (he looked weak, but Brendon—of all people—knew the apparent strength that Ryan held). He was in pure shock and didn’t react to the pain for a full 10 seconds, he just stared at Ryan, blood gushing out of his nose.

Time caught up and Brendon moaned in pain. He cupped one of his hands to his nose and held the other to his side, clenched in a fist. “R-Ryan—” He spit out a mouthful of blood “—why-why?” He was beginning to yell. Ryan’s eyebrows shot up at the change in volume.

Brendon thought that he could see a shred of apology deep in Ryan's eyes, but chalked it up to the moment's deliriousness. 

Ryan’s voice was cold, sending a shiver down Brendon's spine. “You deserved it,” he said with a faux-apologetic sigh, before continuing with a brighter tone. “But, hey, B-den,  _I forgive you_ ,” he stressed, matching Brendon's volume. 

He shook his head and dropped his iPod, the light facing up, illuminating the two of them. "No—no," he choked out. Their eyes caught for a heartbeat before Brendon broke the contact and rolled off the side of the bed. From there, he basically sprinted for the door, nose throbbing painfully. Behind him, he heard Ryan get up and run after him.

Brendon threw open the door and moved to sprint down the wooden staircase. He could see the lights on out in front of the shop and the hard cement floor at the bottom of the stairs. He was hyper aware of everything in that moment; his senses were on an overdrive. 

Brendon wasn’t sure where he was going to go—he didn't know anyone nearby, except for Dallon. Though, it seemed like fate made that decision for him. Ryan was directly behind him, hands outstretched. Brendon peered over his shoulder and tried to bolt down the stairs, but as he was on the seconds step down, Ryan reached for him.

From there, everything went wrong. Ryan's arms hit his back and, instead of grabbing him like he most likely intended, it propelled him forward. 

Brendon tried to recapture his balance, but the momentum was too great. He went tumbling down the stairs, his body somehow making every contact possible with the stairs. The last thing he heard before his head hit the cement floor was the high pitch scream of “Brendon!” courtesy of Ryan. It followed by a slightly deeper scream, echoing his name.

The world went black with a sickening  _crack_.


	8. Friends Aren't As Bad As He Thought (But Suddenly All Goes To Hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wanted was for Brendon to be safe. That was his motive, clear and plain. He realized, though, that he had been a complete asshole to Spencer in the name of the situation; he was glad that he had the opportunity to apologize to try and make amends with Spencer. He wasn’t a mean person, far from it, he was just… cold, at times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.5k words. you're welcome. this is the climax i guess. it's great.
> 
> also i feel like spencer should get with dallon but shush that was not what i planned so here we are.
> 
> its brallon
> 
> there's gonna be like 2 more chapters after this though
> 
> ALSO THANK YOU ALAYNA FOR THE IDEA OF THE NICKNAME. LIKE BRO IT WORKS PERFECTLY

Dallon’s feet pounded against the pavement in time with his heart, each step bringing him closer to his destination. 

He checked his watch every few seconds, praying that Spencer would follow through with his word and come to their meeting. His nerves and anxiety were raging as he glanced around the deserted street, attempting to spot the café where they were planning to meet. He normally didn’t go to this particular café. It was too expensive and just generally not Dallon’s style, but it was a close meeting point between the general area where Spencer lived and his house.

Dallon wasn't poor, per se, just cautiously cheap. It wasn't a big deal, though.

The wind howled again and Dallon shoved his hands into his pockets with a sigh. Brendon still had his favorite jacket so he was left with an older, more raggedy one. Not that he cared all that much; he liked to think that he was impervious to the cold. It seemed like some of his leftover teenage “I’m invincible” mindset had spilled over into his adult life.

But that wasn’t important.

He jogged up the stairs to the café, peering around for Spencer; he wasn’t there yet, which was expected since Dallon was early. The hostess greeted him at the door with a smile, Dallon returning it with clear hesitance. He requested an outdoor table—it wasn’t  _that_  cold and it would be safer for them to speak outside, away from peeping ears—and took his spot at the wire table. He waited for Spencer to arrive, hands clasped over the table top and mind racing. Dallon knew that he was early by at least 10 minutes, so he didn’t focus on the fact that Spencer wasn’t there yet. It would be okay.

Dallon shut his eyes and tried to calm his rampant nerves. He wished that he had ordered a drink other than black coffee—the caffeine wasn’t going to help him calm down. By bouncing his leg he hoped to relieve some of the nervous energy, but he knew that it wasn’t going to help. The energy wouldn’t dissipate until Spencer arrived and Dallon knew, for a fact, that he was going to help.

All he wanted was for Brendon to be safe. That was his motive, clear and plain. He realized, though, that he had been a complete asshole to Spencer in the name of the situation; he was glad that he had the opportunity to apologize to try and make amends with Spencer. He wasn’t a mean person, far from it, he was just… cold, at times. 

Another gust of wind blew into his face and he took a deep, shaky breath to clear his thoughts. He tried to formulate what he was going to say to Spencer when—

“Dallon?” a deep voice asked quietly. Dallon’s eyes shot open, meeting Spencer’s blue ones. He hoped that he didn’t look too shocked by his acquaintance— _friend’s_ —appearance. (Dallon had decided that he was going to try to be friends with Spencer, at least for the time being. They had agreed to be cordial, anyway.)

“Spencer,” Dallon acknowledged with a slight nod. “Take a seat—the waitress should be out in a few minutes and you can order something.” Spencer nodded and pulled the seat in front of Dallon out with a half-smile. He stayed silent for a second. “And, I’m paying,” Dallon added.

“Y-You don’t have to,” Spencer said quickly, brow furrowed. He leaned back in the chair, hands folded in a way that mirrored Dallon’s. Dallon let out a quiet laugh, gripping his wallet in his coat pocket.

“Please, let me,” Dallon insisted, placing his wallet on the table. Sure, he wasn’t rich, but he could afford to buy Spencer  _something_  from here. The basic stuff wasn’t  _that_  expensive, from what he knew. “It’ll be an apology.”

“You’ve already apologized—which I appreciate greatly, thank you—so, please, let me.” Spencer moved to grab his wallet.

Dallon arched an eyebrow gracefully. “Drop it, please. I’ll pay.” His tone made it so that it was final. “Now," Dallon continued, "onto the real meaning of our meeting: Brendon.” Spencer bit his lip, obviously biting back a “no, let me pay” and nodded.

“You said on the phone that you had more to add to the story?” Spencer questioned. Dallon fought back a sigh; he had hoped that Spencer had forgotten about that particular fact. He still didn’t want to admit his harrowing feelings for Brendon.

“Uh, yeah.” Dallon paused, playing with the strings on his coat. He was saved from not explaining further by the waitress sauntering up to the two of them with a sweet smile. Dallon tried to not make his sigh of relief evident.

“Dears,” the waitress said, a tad condescending, “have you picked out what you want? Oh, and here’s your coffee, sweetie.” She placed Dallon’s steaming cup of coffee on the table. Dallon picked it up with haste, gulping down about half of it in one go. His eyes watered against the burn as he regretted drinking it so fast. It was the only way he had planned on stalling for time, though.

“Yeah,” Spencer replied. He pointed to the pumpkin soup on the menu. “Can I have a small one of these?” The waitress nodded, still smiling. To Dallon, who was still recovering from the piping hot coffee burn, her smile was rather creepy.

“Of course, dear. And you?” She tipped her notepad towards Dallon, who froze. His mind went blank—he hated ordering, it always gave him immense anxiety.

He held the silence for a moment too long. “Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “What he’s having.” The waitress pursed her lips.

“Of course!” she repeated and sauntered off again, calling over her shoulder, “I hope you two have a great date!” Dallon’s face went bright red.

“We’re—We’re not—” Dallon tried to call, but she was too far away. “We’re not dating,” he muttered. He glanced up to meet Spencer’s eyes, which were filled with mirth. “What’re you on about?” Dallon demanded.

“Nothing, nothing,” Spencer said quickly. “Just amused. You’re so jealous over  _Brendon_. If I was Brendon then it would be a-okay, correct?” Dallon forced himself not to snap at Spencer, knowing that he was just joking. By the look on Spencer’s face, he was bracing himself for a possible Dallon-explosion.

“You got me,” Dallon said dryly. “But, I’m not—I barely know Brendon. At all.” Spencer grinned at him, leaning forward onto his hands. His eyes danced with laughter.

“Is that stopping you? What are we here for, then, if you don’t have a bon—” Dallon cut him off, face turning another shade of bright red.

“Drop it,  _please_. You’re right, you’re right,” he almost yelled. He lowered his volume, knowing the others in the restaurant were most likely looking over at them with interest. He didn’t need that. “Can we focus on helping Brendon, though?”

Spencer nodded. “Certainly. Alright, do you have any ideas on how to approach this?”

With a smirk permanently fixed to his face, Dallon began to explain his plan.

An hour or so later—after Dallon and Spencer had agreed on what they were going to do and they had eaten their (admittedly delicious) pumpkin soup—they padded down the café steps, chatting about meaningless things. Work, mainly.

“Wentz and Trohman are  _always_ late,” Dallon complained, digging his hands into his pockets. “I don’t understand how they could do that without feeling some semblance of guilt. And any guilt seems absent from their beings to me."

“We’re legitimately skipping work to go rescue a kid, Dallon,” Spencer deadpanned. They walked towards the direction of Dallon’s apartment—Dallon needed to go home before they put their plan into action later in the evening. They needed to go when it was close to closing time, so there was the least chance of having witnesses.

It was a shock to him that Spencer agreed to spend the afternoon with him, watching movies and just talking. ( _Like friends do_ , his mind helpfully supplied. Dallon pointedly ignored it.) Though Spencer actually seemed  _excited_  to. “You’re right," Spencer continued a moment later, "It’s kind of annoying, but I’d never complain about them to their face.”

“I would, if I didn't try to ignore most social interactions. It’s a miracle that we’re still talking.” Dallon shook his head, laughing.

“You’re actually not that bad of a guy, you know that?”

“Don’t get me started on my multitude of faults, Spencer.” Dallon’s tone was exasperated. He didn’t want Spencer believing that he was a good person, because he wasn’t. He could be cordial and kind at times, but his default stature was indifferent and cold. He tried his best to not be cruel, he just wasn't a  _good_  person. (If that wasn’t obvious. He was  _trying_  to be nice to Spencer, though, and that was all that mattered.)

Spencer was quiet for a second, Dallon only hearing their in-time heavy breathing. “Spin,” he said suddenly. Dallon raised an eyebrow and turned to him.

“Excuse me?”                       

“Call me Spin. I prefer it to Spencer… it’s a nickname that my friends use.” Spencer seemed to be embarrassed, with a blush covering his cheeks. Dallon was shocked, to say the least. Never, from what he remembered, had someone offered for him to call them by a nickname. And the “friend” line caused him to stall for a minute. “You don’t have to,” Spencer amended quickly, noticing his lack of response.

“No, no,” Dallon said. “I’ll call you that… Spin. I’m just not used to nicknames, sorry.” The awkwardness was tangible. Dallon hoped that it would dissipate soon. “It’s a nice nickname, though,” he noted, running his hand over his coat to distract him.  

“Oh, okay,” Spencer said with a nervous laugh. “Thanks. Like I said, I prefer it to Spencer. It’s not as… formal, I guess.”

“I understand that.” Dallon noticed that they had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and that there were people walking behind them. “Uh, c’mon, we should probably get to my apartment. It’s not too much farther.”

“I know,” Spencer replied. They began to walk again; Dallon noticed that Spencer’s step had a bit more spring to it, though he didn’t voice that aloud. 

They walked in companionable silence, occasionally commentating on some lovey-dovey couple or stupid teenager that happened to drive by. It was nice.

In that moment, Dallon thought that he might actually have a friend.

 

 

Time passed quickly for Dallon, hanging out with Spencer. He and Spencer idly discussed their plan: talk to Ryan, get the details on Brendon, the like. But soon that got boring and they delved into deeper topics. Dallon avoided saying much about his family or past—it would just dull the already-fragile happy mood. Spencer seemed to do the same, though talked about his sister marrying some millionaire scientist just for the money. That had gotten a genuine laugh out of Dallon.

They relaxed about and watched movies together, soon getting into a heated debate whether drums or bass are more important in songs. Dallon knew that he was going to lose since he understood the importance of the drums, but he still fought for the bass—it’s his true love.

“Without the bass,” Dallon said loudly, gesticulating about and pacing across the tiny living room, “the mood of the song would be lost almost immediately!” Dallon dug his heel into his musty carpet.

Spencer grinned like a Cheshire cat. “But,” he raised an eyebrow, leaning back on the couch with a light sigh, “without the  _drums_  there would be no beat and, therefore, no song in the first place.” He barked out a laugh at the look of defeat on Dallon’s face.

“The bass is just really cool,” Dallon muttered, but there was a smile on his face. “I don’t care what you say.” He sat down on the couch next to Spencer and stretched his arms. They let out a satisfying pop and he sighed.

“I agree, but the drums are so cool!” Spencer spoke passionately, lightly hitting Dallon’s arm. Dallon didn’t respond and they fell into a comfortable silence. This was the first time in years that Dallon felt as comfortable as he did with another human and he loved it. It made him feel alive in a way that he didn’t know he missed. Maybe being friends with someone won’t be as bad he thought it could.

Dallon followed that thought down the rabbit hole he was trying to avoid. He zoned out for God-knows how long (it was maybe a minute, according to Spencer) and all he could think was how this was going to eventually blow up in his face. Spencer was going to turn on him and leave him for less messed-up friends, or for people who were more social. It would happen soon enough.

He was seconds away from pulling his knees up to his chest and visibly showing how he was feeling when Spencer prodded his side.

“Dal?” Spencer asked cautiously. “You okay?” Dallon ignored the use of a nickname for him—it was nice, he admitted—and nodded.

“Yeah, sorry. I just zoned out.” He checked his watch and stifled a gasp. “Shoot, we should probably get going. The shop is going to close soon. It’s 6 o’clock.” Spencer looked unconvinced but dropped further interrogation about Dallon’s emotional state, which he welcomed. 

“Oh, crap, yeah I guess so. Let me put on my shoes and coat and then we can go.” Spencer peeled himself off of the leather and stumbled into the small hall closet. Dallon followed and they effortlessly pulled on their coats and boots in less than a minute. “Alright,” Spencer said. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

 

 

Dallon’s anxiety heightened with every step towards the flower shop. They walked in silence, dodging any kids or families who happened to be out. Dallon wrung his hands together as a way to divert his attention, but it wasn’t working too well. He wasn’t sure how Spencer was feeling—he was in a stony silence. His face was fixed in a neutral fixture, leaving him nearly unreadable to Dallon. Not that he was ever that great at reading other’s emotions in the first place. It would have been nice to know what Spencer was feeling.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep walking. The sun was setting, casting long shadows down the residential streets, distorting their figures. It was beginning to get chilly, the afternoon sunshine no longer warming their bodies. Dallon rubbed his arms and Spencer glanced over at him.

“You okay?” Spencer’s voice was quiet but in the near-silent street, it felt like a yell to Dallon. He flinched despite himself.

“Yeah, sorry. Just cold. And nervous,” he added. Spencer took a shaky breath and nodded, trying to hold a convincing smile. The sun shined in Dallon’s eyes as they passed an opening in the townhouses; he moved to cover his eyes with a sigh.

“Me too,” Spencer revealed, glancing at the colorful sky. “To both of those things. It’s not a weakness to admit nerves, you know, right?” Spencer sounded too much like a parent to Dallon.

“I know,” Dallon replied, running a hand through his hair. “We’re almost there—right over there.” He pointed to the prominent flower shop right down the street, Spencer following his gaze before snapping back.

“Don’t change the subject, Dallon.” Spencer sounded like a stern father. Dallon felt patronized though he knew that wasn’t how Spencer meant it; he couldn’t help feeling that way, though.

“Don’t test me,” Dallon snapped. He sighed again and stopped walking, peering over at Spencer. “I’m sorry, it’s been a stressful couple of days.”

“I understand,” Spencer said. “Let’s just drop it. Like you said, we’re almost there and we should get focused. I don’t know how much Ryan has changed or if he’s gotten worse, you know?” Dallon nodded wordlessly and followed Spencer, who had begun to stride purposely towards the flower shop.

“I’ve seen him a total of 2 times—the second time I saw him do something that abruptly changed Brendon’s mood. I assume it was bad.” They were standing in front of the shop; Spencer, picking up on Dallon’s apprehension about going into the shop, pulled ahead and jogged up the stairs. Dallon followed reluctantly.

“Ready?’ Spencer asked, hand on the door. Dallon gestured for him to open the door, forgoing a response. “I assume you are.” Spencer pushed open the door and walked in, Dallon following. He was hit immediately by the unmistakable smell of dirty and flowers, a homely scent. He peered around and found Ryan at the register, phone in hand.

Dallon could understand why Brendon admired and liked Ryan so much. He was a gorgeous man, and wearing a homemade flower crown and being outlined by the golden sunlight didn’t help. Dallon nudged Spencer and whispered so Ryan wouldn’t hear them, “He’s pretty.”

He realized how childish that sounded, but it seemed like Spencer would’ve intoned the same sentiment. Dallon had to remind himself that Ryan was an abusive asshole, one that left his boyfriend on the cold steps, in December, because he was  _late_.  

“He is,” Spencer replied, before placing a finger over his lips and clearing his throat loudly. They watched as Ryan nearly dropped his phone from shock.

“Oh, hi, sorry,” Ryan said quickly, placing his phone on the cash register table. He didn't seem to recognize either of them, which was expected. “I didn’t hear you two come in. How can I help you?” 

To Dallon, Ryan was rather charming, shooting them a bright smile to follow his words. He felt his heart beat faster but tried to ignore it. Spencer seemed to be immune to Ryan’s charms; Dallon wondered if they had a more complicated history.

“Ryan, cut the bull,” Spencer growled, skipping any pleasantries. Dallon almost took a step away from Spencer; he didn’t realize that Spencer held so much anger towards Ryan.

“Spencer?” Ryan said, obviously surprised. “You’ve changed so much! It’s been years—high school, right?”

Spencer took a step closer to where Ryan was standing. “Why are you doing it to someone else?” Dallon knew that he was being vague on purpose.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Spin.”

“Don’t call me that,” Spencer spit out. Dallon put a hand on his shoulder to try and calm him down. Ryan raised an eyebrow, a poisonous smile gracing his lips.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that. Please, uh, inform me of your reason for gracing my humble shop,” Ryan stated silkily, leaning forward on his hands. Dallon wasn’t sure how his arms could hold him up—they were as skinny as twigs.

Spencer raised his arm up to begin his rant when Dallon smoothly slid in front of him, cutting him off. “I’m Dallon Weekes,” Dallon said. By the look of anger on Ryan’s face, Brendon had referred to him in the past. He knew that it shouldn’t have, but that fact made him feel warm. “And, we’re worried about your boyfriend, Brendon. Is he here?”

Ryan glanced upstairs, giving away the lie in what he said a moment later. “He’s not here.”

Dallon smirked. “Of course, like we believe you,  _Ryan_. He’s upstairs, but we shouldn’t get him involved since you’re such a danger to him.”

Ryan shook his head. Dallon felt Spencer move behind him, like he was going to try and strike Ryan, but Dallon held his hand out to block Spencer. “Don’t,” he mumbled. “I’ve got this.”

“I treat him with love, Mr. Weekes. Love and  _only_  love.” Dallon knew the implications of his stressed word.

“Love, maybe. But, only love? No way. Love and your fists, by the looks of it. I saw the look on his face—I saw the bruise on his face! Ross, it’s not healthy.” Dallon took a deep breath to calm himself. “When you left him out on that doorstep—”

“He deserved it! I  _told_  him that he couldn’t come home late again,” Ryan interjected angrily. Spencer moved again to try and sock him in the eye, but Dallon gripped his shirt with more strength than he believed he had. It must have been the adrenaline. 

Ryan shifted from foot to foot and moved to stand in front of the cash register. Dallon thought that was a dumb move since Spencer was seconds away from decking this kid. Heck, so was Dallon.

He wanted to punch that pretty face for hurting Brendon.

“—When you  _left him on that doorstep_  in  _December_ , I knew it was abuse. You  _can’t_ do that. Like, I think it’s punishable by law. He could have  _died_.” Dallon knew that he was bluffing for some of it; it most likely wasn’t punishable by law. Ryan didn’t need to know that, though.

“He would’ve been fine. Why do you even care? He’s  _my_  boyfriend and he loves  _me_.”

“Maybe we have a decent amount of empathy?” Spencer asked sarcastically. “And I know firsthand how you can be; I’d never wish that on someone else. I’m lucky I left when I did.” Dallon glanced down at him, brow furrowed, asking a silent question about their history. Spencer shook his head, which Dallon took as  _not now_.

“It was in no way my fault. I’ve treated Brendon better than anyone in my relationships. Maybe I love him.” Out of all that was said that day, that was the one thing that Dallon believed. He believed that Ryan loved Brendon, despite having an extremely messed up way of showing it.

“Why do you treat him the way you do?” Dallon’s question was quiet. Ryan’s head shot up, eyes wide.

“I do it because I love him. He is indebted to me for saving him from his family, okay? He can’t leave me. Like I said, he loves me. Now, kindly leave my shop before I get angry.” Ryan took a step forward and made a sweeping motion. Dallon took it as if they were trash beneath  _King Ryan_.

“No. Not until we get a solid answer that Brendon will be okay,” Spencer said suddenly. Dallon had moved to leave—this was too much confrontation and they could always come back another day—but Spencer was standing his ground.

“You stay away from Brendon!” Ryan screamed. His scream was high-pitched and Dallon fought the urge to cover his ears. “He’s  _my_  boyfriend,” Ryan continued in a quieter tone. “So, you shouldn’t care about him. Leave!” Dallon took an involuntary step back. They fell into silence.

Without warning, Spencer took a step forward and slapped Ryan. With one last scathing look, Spencer grabbed Dallon’s arm and pulled them both out of the shop, Ryan’s “You better leave Brendon alone!” echoing in their ears. Dallon wasn’t sure what to think.

Together, about 20 feet away from the shop, Spencer and Dallon took heavy breaths in tandem. 

“Spin,” Dallon said without thinking, “that was  _amazing_. The slap, I mean,” he amended. “The slap was amazing. Not the situation.” Dallon hadn’t noticed that he had called Spencer “Spin” for the first time after the idea was offered. Spencer offered a weak grin.

“Thanks. But… he hasn’t changed one bit. Still the same as when I… knew him.”

Dallon rubbed his forehead. “Were you two… romantically involved?” He wasn’t sure how to phrase the question without it sounding invasive.

Spencer shot him a  _look_  and Dallon knew that it wasn’t the best time to ask that question. Spencer answered nonetheless. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I meant to tell you but… it never came up. It’s easier to forget it. He acted similarly to me like he has to Brendon, from what you’ve said and how Ryan has acted.”

“Oh God,” Dallon said, for lack of knowing what to say. He wasn’t sure if he should try and comfort him; were they there yet?

“It was years ago.” Dallon watched as Spencer wrapped his hands around his own middle, giving himself a faux-hug. Dallon laid a hand on Spencer’s slightly shaking shoulder. He looked up at Dallon. Now, in any other situation, this would be when the swell of music would occur, leading to Dallon and Spencer sharing a passionate kiss. That didn’t happen. Contrary to that, really. 

Dallon awkwardly removed his hand as Spencer jumped back involuntarily.

Dallon laughed weakly. “What should we do now?” he asked, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible.

“No clue. I guess I should go home? I’ll see you at work tomorrow and we can talk more, okay?” Spencer wrapped his coat tighter around his shaking body. The temperature had dropped in the time that they had been in the shop; it was below freezing, Dallon assumed. Spencer seemed to want to get away from there as fast as possible.

“Yeah, okay,” Dallon said lamely. “See you then.”

He didn’t move from his spot under the street lamp and watched as Spencer half-jogged towards the direction of his house. Dallon dug his hands into his pockets and leaned against the lamp with a sigh. He could really go for a cigarette.

 

 

Dallon sat on the edge of the street, head in his hands, for an unspecified amount of time. He didn’t feel like he should go back to his house— mainly because he didn’t want to walk and that it didn’t feel right, for some reason. Some unknown source was almost forcing him to stay. It was like something else bad was going to happen and he needed to be there.

Out of nowhere Dallon pulled himself up and began to pace the street, walking in front of Ryan’s shop every so often. It was as if he was waiting for Brendon to possibly be kicked out again, or for Ryan to show his face again so Dallon could punch him like he deserved. He squeezed his fists against the itch to mess up Ryan’s pretty face.

He made his second pass of the shop when he heard  _something._  He paused, head leaning towards the shut front door, trying to pick up  _who_  it was. It wasn’t clear, but he heard Ryan’s high-pitched yell, followed by a deeper voice, screaming something back. It  _had_  to be Brendon, and it seemed like he was finally fighting back. Dallon hung around the door just in case anything happened.

Above, in the shop, he heard a garbled scream and a door hit the wall with a  _bang!_  Dallon froze and reached for his phone, prepared to call whomever necessary.

He heard—he assumed—Ryan scream clearly: “Brendon!” Dallon peered through the little side window next to the door that happened to give him a clear view of the staircase. Time slowed to a snail’s pace; Dallon watched in clear horror as he saw Brendon tumble down the stairs, head smacking each step. As Brendon hit the final landing, Dallon’s voice mixed in with Ryan’s screaming “Brendon!”

Dallon’s eyes were wide with terror. He jingled the front door knob so he could check on Brendon before Ryan—who he knew was most likely behind this—could come get him and maybe hurt him further. 

To his luck, the front door was unlocked and he opened it easily, nearly pulling it off of the hinges in his haste.

Adrenaline was pouring through his veins as he saw Brendon’s  body. He was sprawled out on the concrete floor, blood leaking out of his nose, back of the head, and various other parts of his body. Dallon was beginning to hyperventilate, gripping his chest in pain. He moved to look up the stairs, in case Ryan was up there, and only caught the hint of movement.

Ryan had fled.

Pure anger coursed through Dallon. He wanted to sprint after that snake but knew that he had to help Brendon. With shaking hands, Dallon called 9-1-1.

 _“Hell, 911,”_  the responder said. Their voice was like a soothing balm to Dallon’s nerves, though that only worked for a few seconds before they returned full-force.

“He-Help,” Dallon choked out, trying not to look at Brendon’s broken body. “I-I’m at Ross’ Flower Shop on 5th street a-and my  _friend’s_  boyfriend pushed him down the stairs and he’s unconscious and I don’t know what to do.” Dallon said this all very quickly.

 _“Sir, it’ll be okay. Can you please repeat your location?”_  Dallon wanted to end himself. Why were they being so calm? (Later, he realized that it was their job to be calm and not freak out over each case. He thanked God for that.)

“I-I’m at Ross’ Flower Shop on 5th street. P-Please, hurry!” Dallon was basically yelling because of the nerves he was feeling. Brendon wasn’t moving!

 _“Thank you, sir. Help is on the way. Can you do one thing for me?”_ the responder intoned carefully.

“Y-Yes,” Dallon replied shakily, running a hand through his hair anxiously.

_“Check that your friend is breathing and make sure that he won’t be in any further harm.”_

“O-Okay, t-thank you.” Dallon, without any further thought, ended the call and fell to his knees, hard. He choked back a moan of pain and focused on making sure that Brendon was breathing. In the low-light of the room, Dallon got a good look at his face; Brendon’s nose looked broken and was bleeding profusely—Dallon tried to ignore that. He held a hand over Brendon’s mouth and, to his immense relief, he could feel Brendon’s warm breath on his hand.

He was alive still. Just unconscious. Dallon forced himself to not run his shaking fingers through Brendon’s baby-soft, blood-matted brown hair, lest he somehow hurt him more. Brendon’s face was relaxed in his unconscious state, a small smile gracing his hurt face.

Dallon left a hurried message to Spencer's phone. He explained the situation as quickly as possible, all while trying not to cry. He told Spencer to call him back as soon as possible and that he most likely wasn't going to be into work in the morning.

 

 

Dallon was a ball of anxiety when the responders  _finally_  arrived. He wasn’t sure what real life was anymore; nothing seemed real. He was in a dream-like state as he was asked about the situation. He doesn’t remember his responses—he remembers very little for a good hour of that night.

Brendon was strapped into a gurney and was moved to an ambulance. Dallon stood out in the cold, watching from a comfortable distance. The paramedics wouldn’t let him get any closer. As the ambulance was minutes away from pulling out, a separate paramedic walked up to his left and tapped his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly. He thought he had said something but chalked it down to him being delirious.

“Sir,” she said, voice gentle and comforting. “Are you related to Mr. Urie?”

Dallon shook his head. “N-No.” Why was she asking him this?

“The only way you can ride in the ambulance is if you’re related to Mr. Urie.” Since when had he asked that? That must have been what he had said.

“I’m dating him,” Dallon blurted out before he could think. He didn’t regret the lie; he could explain to Brendon later. The paramedic looked him up and down, pursing her lips.

“Well, if you come quickly I guess we can hold you. Come with me, sweetie.” Dallon nodded slowly and followed the lady onto the ambulance. He ambled to a seat and crumbled into it with a sigh, placing his head into his hands. The flashing lights were permanently burned into his corneas and that was all he could see for the short ride to the hospital.

 

Dallon stood in front of the door to Brendon’s hospital room. The panic was over and Dallon was able to breathe easy; Brendon was okay. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing at his phone. No new messages. Spencer wasn't responding.

Despite it all being okay, Dallon didn’t know where Ryan was. He bolted, like the wimp he was. Dallon prayed to the God he no longer believed in that Ryan would leave Brendon alone, especially after this. If he even got near to Brendon, Dallon wouldn’t be able to stop himself from punching him. Not after he did  _this_  to Brendon.

Dallon had explained the situation to the police, stating that he had no clue where Ryan could have gone, but they should go look for him. Maybe he would serve some jail time.

Dallon moved to go into Brendon’s room when a nurse stopped him. “Sir, do you have a family connection to Mr. Urie?” She echoed the paramedic from before.

“I’m his boyfriend.” The lie came easy now that Dallon was in his right mind. The nurse nodded and let him in. Dallon swept forward with a nod to her. The room was a blinding white and Dallon searched, in vain, for Brendon. His eyes took their sweet time to adjust.

As he made contact with Brendon’s form, all he could think was:  _He looks so small._  


	9. An Unintelligible Night in the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tried to squeeze his right hand but found that he couldn’t—it was immobilized in some sort of cast. Brendon’s drugged mind couldn’t come up with an answer to why he was in the hospital. He was having trouble remembering his own name if he was being honest. The energy required to open his eyes again was too great. He drifted off soon after.  
> Not once did Ryan’s name cross his mind in the 2 minutes he was awake.
> 
> He tried to squeeze his right hand but found that he couldn’t—it was immobilized in some sort of cast. Brendon’s drugged mind couldn’t come up with an answer to why he was in the hospital. He was having trouble remembering his own name if he was being honest. The energy required to open his eyes again was too great. He drifted off soon after.  
> Not once did Ryan’s name cross his mind in the 2 minutes he was awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h guys, sorry for the break!! i would've posted this for New Year's Eve, but i was busy lol. take it as a New Years Day gift!!
> 
> i hope you enjoy it :)

The hospital room was a bright, blinding white behind Brendon's eyelids. He had let a sliver of his eyes crack open for less than a millisecond before shutting them tightly again with an inaudible hiss. His head was pounding and it felt like he had an annoying amount of cotton present in his mouth. The movement to try and cough made his eyes water in pain.

The steady whirl and beep of machinery was what kept Brendon from drifting off again. That, and the fact that he was clueless to  _why_  and where exactly he was. Below him was a soft bed, sheets made of cotton and a gown covering the bare minimum of his body. There was little doubt that he was in the hospital; the smell gave it dead away.

It wasn’t noticeable if there was anyone else in the room. Not that it mattered all that much to Brendon when he could barely even think with the pounding in his skull. Anyone else there would have made it too loud; his heartbeat thumping in his ears was enough. Brendon focused on his surroundings as best as he could.

He tried to squeeze his right hand but found that he couldn’t—it was immobilized in some sort of cast. Brendon’s drugged mind couldn’t come up with an answer to why he was in the hospital. He was having trouble remembering his own name if he was being honest. The energy required to open his eyes again was too great. He drifted off soon after.

Not once did Ryan’s name cross his mind in the 2 minutes he was awake.

 

 

When Brendon woke up again hours later, he felt like he had enough strength to properly open his eyes and get a good look around the room. He shoved his good arm behind him and propped himself up before opening his eyes. It wasn’t surprising to find out that he actually was in a hospital room—the whirling and light chatter by the nurses gave it away without much guessing. He couldn't remember if he had woken up before hand or not.

Beneath him he felt his arm begin to shake from the strain, so he sunk back down, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. Instead of manually looking around, Brendon closed his eyes and tried to picture the room in his mind’s eye. In front of his was the door and it was ajar in just the slightest; there was a TV just to his left and behind and to the sides of him was the machinery that was monitoring him.

He took a deep breath and tried his best to relax, thinking over the circumstances that brought him to this point. The memories were fading, but he could remember the exchange that occurred with Ryan moments before he passed out. He remembered yelling  _something_  at him, before sprinting out of the room. He remembered Ryan’s hand on his back, not quite pushing him but at the same time not grabbing him. Deep inside, he knew that it was Ryan’s fault that he fell down those stairs, but he didn’t want to admit.

“It was my fault too,” he intoned softly, gripping the blanket that was pulled up around his chest tighter. “It was my fault too.” He let his mantra fade into the near-silence of the room, echoing around his own head for a few extra beats.

“Brendon?” a soft voice asked after a few seconds. Brendon’s eyes shot open in shock, but he didn’t move his head from its position on the comfy pillow. “Brendon?” they repeated. The voice sounded familiar to Brendon, but he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t Ryan, he knew, since Ryan had a high-pitched voice, one that was shrill to the ears at times. Brendon let himself relax as the person didn’t continue to speak, only moving in their seat occasionally. He pretended to be asleep, not wanting to interact with them.

Behind his closed eyelids, he could hear the squeaking of a chair being pulled across the room. He didn’t move, laying unnaturally still on the hospital bed, barely daring to pull in a shaky breath. Without warning, he felt soft fingers run through his hair in a comforting manner. “Brendon,” the voice repeated, “I don’t know why I’m still here, to be honest. We’ve only spoken once before, but I… felt it was right.”

Brendon deduced that they were, in fact, male. His tone was soft, comforting, and it took most of Brendon’s will power to not lean into the feather-light touches. His voice was like a soft balm to the burns Ryan had left on his form. It was nice.

“Since you’re asleep, and I would never dare to admit this to you while you’re awake, I guess I should tell you about myself.” Brendon still couldn’t place his name and it was bugging him. This man was being so kind to him and he couldn’t even remember his name! Brendon wanted to cry from frustration but knew that the man then wouldn’t tell his story.

“I guess,” the man continued, “I should start from the beginning.” Brendon could hear the smirk in his words. “My name in Dallon Weekes—you already knew that, though—and I was born on May 4th, 1981. I was born in Missouri to two Mormon parents.” It, once again, took most of Brendon’s willpower not to snap his eyes open and inform Dallon that he was from Mormon parents too. (Also— _Dallon_! The kind stranger who had taken him in  _and_  come to confront Ryan was with  _him_!)

“That was the first problem. You see, I’m gay. That doesn’t go over well with Mormon parents, and, as you could guess, I was kicked out when I turned 18.” Brendon tried to ignore some of the parallels in their timelines, being a gay Mormon abused/kicked out by his family.  _It was weird how similar paths crossed_ , Brendon mused, before turning his attention back to Dallon.

“I floated around for a while, staying at “friend’s” houses before they eventually kicked me out for reasons  _still_  unknown to me, almost a decade later. It hurt, you know, knowing that I wasn’t enough for even my friends, let alone my family. So, around 5 years ago, I moved here. I took night classes and got my bachelor's in music in less than 3 years since I had so much time on my hands. Never during that time did I meet someone that I would refer to as a “friend”. I had—and still do have—a hard time trusting people.” Dallon took a shaky breath.

 _Well, that’s sort of justified,_  Brendon thought.  _At least I had Ryan to take me in a protect me_. He felt his heart breaking for Dallon—he hasn’t had a friend in years, and that made Brendon feel inexplicably sad. He didn’t understand why Dallon wasn’t a cranky old hermit now, living alone in his apartment, never being kind and courteous, as he was to Brendon. He wanted to reach up and give Dallon a hug but refrained from doing so.

“I-I’ve never told anyone any of this, you know. I-I’m just glad that you’re asleep. I could never face you again if you knew this. I barely even know you, which is why I’m confused as to why I’m spilling basically my darkest secrets to you.” Brendon held his breath as the hand running through his hair paused for a minute, before resuming again. “W-When I ran into you on New Year's Eve, s-something changed, I think. At first, I thought of you as pathetic, which I learned very quickly that that wasn’t the case—far from it. After you left in the morning with only a note, I was worried.”

Brendon heard him take a steadying breath again. “I was also afraid. I had just met you—we barely spoke 200 words to each other, for God’s sake! —but I felt like I could trust you. That scared me. I haven’t had a person who I felt like I could trust in what feels like decades. Heck, that’s probably right. It’s been forever. T-There’s something I-I have to admit.” Dallon’s voice had gone shaky and Brendon felt his heart clench again. He just wanted to give him a big hug, but his injuries and self-preservation forbade it.

“E-Ever since we met, I, uh, felt…” Dallon trailed off, trying to find the right words, “romatically affiliated to… you. It’s wrong, I know, since you’re in love with Ryan—the asshole, you shouldn’t have been treated like that—but I just wanted to tell you that to, uh, get it off of my chest.”

Brendon wasn’t sure if he was breathing anymore. Sure, he had felt a… weird connection to Dallon since that night a few days before then, but he wasn’t sure if he was the only one. He knew that he didn’t love Ryan anymore—that ship has sailed, the final nail in the coffin being the incident that  _left him in the hospital_.

“Yeah.” Dallon let out another shaky laugh. “That’s really it. I guess some good has come out of this—for me, at least, since I’m a selfish asshole—since I’m technically “friends” with Spencer now. Oh, by the way, he helped me out with confronting Ryan. I’m sorry that it led to you going to the hospital, though. I never wanted that.” Brendon could hear the sincerity in his voice. “Thank you for listening, I guess. Well, not really, since you’re asleep and stuff.” Dallon lapsed into a comfortable silence, his fingers still dancing through Brendon’s hair as gently as he could.

Brendon let out a quiet sigh of comfort and let Dallon continue to run his hands through his hair. For a second, Brendon thought he heard Dallon sniffle ever-so-slightly, but chalked it up to be one of the machines. He seemed like a man who rarely cried.

 

 

Brendon woke up one last time while in the hospital. The first thing that he noticed was that Dallon had fallen asleep by his side, forehead placed next to Brendon, neck craned in what appeared to be an uncomfortable manner. Quietly, as so to not wake up Dallon, Brendon shifted in his bed to sit up better. He propped his aching back against the pillows and gazed softly around the room. Sometime while he was asleep someone dimmed the lights, making the room easier to look at, which Brendon was immensely happy about. He didn’t want to burn his corneas.

He shifted his gaze to Dallon, who was asleep peacefully. Brendon hesitantly placed his fingers in Dallon’s hair, running through it like he had done to him before. Dallon’s hair was soft and in his sleep his dug his face further into Brendon’s side with a sigh. Brendon thought he looked adorable. He knew that Dallon was almost 7 years older than him, which was kind of scary. Ever since he as a child, had always been afraid of those who were older than him. But, hearing Dallon’s story had washed away some of the apprehension he held.

“Dallon,” Brendon whispered, as inaudible as he could. His voice cracked from lack of use, but he continued, despite knowing that Dallon was asleep. “I was abused by my family—not physically, but emotionally. R-Ryan, he took me from them and p-protected m-me.” He felt Dallon stir underneath his hand and abruptly drew it away, cutting off what he was going to say

“Brendon?” Dallon murmured, confused. Brendon watched as he pulled his head up and revealed his sleep-filled eyes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on Brendon, who had gone pale.

“Yeah,” Brendon replied, biting his lip nervously. “It’s me.” He laid his hand back down next to Dallon’s, who quickly flitted back and forth between his own and Brendon’s. Brendon thought that he was deciding whether to grab it or not. Dallon’s cheeks turned red as he tried to focus on Brendon again.

“You’re awake?”

Brendon nodded slightly, a smile gracing his lips tentatively. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” Dallon let out a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

“How long have you been awake?” Dallon asked cautiously. Brendon knew that he was thinking about his admittance earlier; he didn’t confirm or deny whether he heard it or not.

Gripping his bed sheets tightly, Brendon replied, lying through his teeth, “Not that long. I woke up a few times but drifted off almost immediately.” Dallon looked relieved.

“How do you feel?” It was obvious to Brendon that Dallon was eager to change the subject.

“I’m fine, I guess. Do you know what happened exactly? I can’t remember that well…” Brendon trailed off, embarrassed. He bit his lip, watching as Dallon’s gaze traveled to it before breaking away.

Dallon scratched the back of his neck. “I-I don’t know what led up to it, but I happened to be passing b your shop when I heard you scream,” Dallon said slowly. “I was… worried, so I opened your front door to find you passed out on the floor, your arms and legs intertwined in ways that the shouldn’t have been. Brendon, there was so much blood. At least, I t-think there was.” Dallon broke off, trying to remember more of what happened.

“Did you call 9-1-1?” Brendon asked, trying to get him to reveal more.

“Y-Yes. B-But first, I went to see if I could find Ryan and ask exactly what happened, but, Brendon, he ran.” Dallon paused to let that sink in. Brendon couldn’t believe that Ryan had run, but knew that it was plausible. He hoped that it was because he felt bad. One could dream.

“O-Okay,” Brendon said shakily. “D-Do you know w-where h-he went?”

Dallon shook his head, hair flopping about. “No. I have no idea. He must have escaped from the back.” They lapsed into silence.

“Wait,” Brendon said, realizing something, “how did you get in here? I thought they only allowed family?”

Dallon’s face went bright red. “I told them that I was your b-boyfriend,” Dallon admitted, tripping over the words. “I-I’m sorry. It was the only way that I could have gotten in here; they wouldn’t let me otherwise. If you want me to go, I can. We barely know each other, anyway.” To Brendon, Dallon looked ashamed that he had lied to stay with Brendon, but it happened to be the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for him.

The weight on the bed lightened as Dallon stood up and moved to leave the room. He was almost at the door when Brendon realized that Dallon was serious and that he was going to leave. “Wait,” Brendon called weakly, “please stay.” Dallon turned around, a look of confusion gracing his features.

“You want me to stay?” he asked. It seemed like that was the last he expected for Brendon to stay. “But, I was being creepy. I said that I was your  _boyfriend_ and I know nothing about you. Who does that?” Dallon shifted, leaning on the doorframe.

“That’s literally the nicest thing someone has done for me in years, Dallon.  _Trust_   _me_. I need you to stay,” Brendon admitted sheepishly. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Are you sure?” Dallon crossed his hands over his stomach, the universal sign of ‘self-conscious’. Brendon wanted to give him a hug.

“ _Yes_ ,” Brendon repeated forcefully, before falling back onto his pillow with a sigh. He was only awake for maybe 15 minutes, but he was exhausted. “Please stay.” He knew he sounded pathetic but the last thing he wanted was for to be alone in the hospital room. Dallon didn’t respond yet Brendon heard him cross the room slowly, careful not to step on anything. He heard Dallon crash back into his chair with a moderate sigh.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, breathing in tandem. “Dallon?” Brendon asked prudently, running his hand over the blanket as a way to distract himself. He wanted to tell Dallon about him and Ryan, as a way to “pay him back”, so to speak, for telling him about his past. (Though he didn’t know that Brendon had heard him in the first place, so it was kind of pointless. Brendon just hoped that getting it off of his chest would help him in the long run.)

“Yes?”

“The reason why I still loved Ryan was because he took me from my gay-hating Mormon family. In case you wanted to know,” Brendon added. Dallon was quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t blame you,” Dallon replied after some time. “If I had someone who took me in and…” he trailed off. “If I was in your shoes, I would have been the same.” Dallon swallowed hard.

Brendon nodded from his bed. “I know,” he said but didn’t explain further. He hoped that Dallon would understand what he was insinuating. “It was only 3 years ago…feels like ages. I always hoped that he would change, you know?”

“When I was talking to Spencer, he said that Ryan was like that, even in high school,” Dallon supplied. “Some people never change.”

“It was a fleeting amount of hope. I wish I had the chance to tell him how much he messed with me.”

“How so?” Dallon asked, before continuing quickly, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I don’t know what’s become of me.” Brendon knew that his face was a bright red from embarrassment. His tone and speed said it all.

“No, it’s okay. He just made me… paranoid and afraid to be myself, I guess? I don’t know, that sounds stupid. I’m stupid,” Brendon muttered. He heard Dallon stand up.

“You’re not stupid,” Dallon insisted. “Far from it. Believe me. The reason why I can be so… cold is because of my... past.”

“I know,” Brendon said quietly after a moment. “I heard you when you talked about your past.” He heard Dallon stiffen.

“H-How much?” Dallon whispered harshly. Brendon flinched despite himself and tried to dig himself deeper into the blankets. He had hoped that Dallon wouldn’t be mad.

“A-All of it? I-I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” Brendon continued quickly, holding his good arm over his face to protect himself. He didn't know if Dallon would turn on him like Ryan had in the past. “Please don’t hurt me,” he mumbled as he heard Dallon walk closer. He waited for a second, breath held, before suddenly he felt a warm hand on his arm, running up and down it lightly.

“It’s okay,” Dallon said with a sigh. “I-I’m sorry I reacted so strongly. I hadn’t realized you were listening.” Brendon moved his hand from in front of his face to get a better look at Dallon. Dallon’s face was bright red, redder than he thought a face could get and he kept abusing his lip. He looked adorably worried.

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise. T-Thank you for telling me.”

“You better not,” Dallon half-snapped, before softening again. He wouldn’t meet Brendon’s eyes. “I didn’t realize that you could have been listening. I was being really creepy, again and—I told you  _that_. Oh crap, oh crap.” Dallon anxiously ran a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t a come-on, I promise, I was just being honest. That’s what you get for being honest for once,” he added in a low whisper, but Brendon caught his words clearly.

“I understand, Dallon,” Brendon stressed. “I’m not mad. I’m more flattered, if anything at all. You know,” he whispered, “I couldn’t stop thinking about how nice you were to me.  _Thank you so much_. I-I would’ve died, most likely, if it wasn’t for you and your kindness.” Brendon watched as Dallon’s face went another shade of red.

“I’m glad I decided to not be an asshole for once.” Dallon laughed, cocking a smile cheekily. Brendon nodded.

Brendon was saved from responding by a nurse tentatively knocking on the door to his room. Dallon jumped back from the bed, cheeks flushed, and took a seat next to Brendon’s bed; he looked very nervous and wrung his hands. The nurse nodded at the two of them and stepped in with a purpose, a fake smile covering her face.

“Mr. Urie,” the nurse said, “may I ask you a few questions regarding the night before?” She held her clipboard expectantly, tapping her pen loudly. Brendon nodded. “Alright, so, what circumstances led to you falling down the stairs at Ross’ Flower Shop?”

“I was having a fight with my boyfriend and… he sort of pushed me down the stairs? He could have been trying to catch me, but I’m not sure…” Brendon trailed off, glancing down at the blanket that was on his lap. He sniffled slightly and out of the corner of his eye he could see Dallon restraining himself from getting up and possibly hugging him.

“And who is this man?” she asked, nodding towards Dallon’s lanky form. He looked like he was dead on his feet.

“My… boyfriend?” Brendon said cautiously. The nurse’s eyebrow rose in confusion and Brendon realized his mistake. “It wasn’t him! He’s not my boyfriend, that was a lie” he rectified quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, Brendon saw Dallon deflate and reach for his phone. Brendon knew that Dallon wasn’t angry at the boyfriend thing, though. He was smart enough to realize that he would be in worse trouble if they thought he was actually Brendon’s boyfriend and pushed him down the stairs. Or, at least Brendon hoped so.

“Sir,” the nurse said, directing her attention to Dallon, “do you have a family relation to Mr. Urie?”

“Brendon,” Brendon interjected, but Dallon shook his head no anyway, not saying anything.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you have to leave if you aren’t related to… Brendon.” The nurse didn’t seem one bit apologetic, internally smirking. Dallon nodded again, resigned, and stood up, gripping his phone tightly. From Brendon’s perspective, Dallon’s knuckles were white on his phone from the strain.

“Brendon, I hope you feel better soon.” Dallon sounded distressed but Brendon wasn’t sure what he could say in front of the nurse. Brendon bit his lip.

“Dallon,” Brendon called to his retreating back, causing the taller man to turn back slightly, “ _thank you_. For, uh, everything. It means a lot to me. Can’t he stay, please?” Brendon turned his attention to the nurse, who was pursing her lips. She shook her head.

“No, sorry, Mr. Urie. Not for another day or so.” Brendon could see Dallon standing at the door frame, a sad smile on his face. He nodded to Brendon before stalking off down the hallway. The nurse shifted, bringing Brendon’s attention back to her. “We’ll be back for more tests in a few minutes, Mr. Urie.” Without another word, she spun on her heel and made her way out of the room. Brendon didn't try to correct her again.

Brendon sat in silence, unsure of what to do. Against his will, he felt tears well up in his eyes, the stress and pain of the situation finally catching up. With Dallon there it was better; he had someone to possible comfort him. But now, he was alone in the hospital bed, surrounded by the ominous beeping and whirling of the unknown machines.

He closed his eyes, trying to visually imagine his injuries. According to his charts, he had a concussion, broken left arm, broken ankle, and a few broken ribs. And, in that moment, he could feel each and every one of his injuries.

“D-Dallon,” Brendon whimpered, curling on himself the best he could. His head was pounding and everything hurt like hell. He drifted off into a fitful sleep, wishing Dallon—or  _anyone_ —was there to comfort him.

Dallon was right, he was pathetic. 

 

 

 

“Brendon,” a voice—Dallon, Brendon idly thought—said urgently. “Brendon, something important happened.” Dallon was shaking Brendon’s shoulder, urging him to get up. Brendon said something intelligible and tried to cover his eyes with his arm before hissing in pain. “ _Brendon_ ,” Dallon insisted, voice still quiet—something Brendon thanked him for, “it’s about Ryan.”

Brendon’s eyes shot open. Dallon’s face was hovering above his, a concerned look gracing it. From what Brendon could see using his sleep-filled eyes, Dallon’s face was red and puffy, showing that he had cried. He wasn’t sure of the reason why, but he reached up and hugged Dallon as best he could. Dallon froze before encircling his arms around Brendon’s lithe form, which was shaking. He hoped that Dallon would tell him why, eventually.

They pulled away a moment later. “T-Thanks,” Dallon said, face red with embarrassment. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “But, something important happened.”

“How’d you get in here?” Brendon asked. It didn’t dawn on him that Dallon had something important to say. His drugged state led him to ask about the unimportant questions first.

“That isn’t important,” Dallon said quickly, face flushed again. “I snuck in, but that’s not that important. I was hanging out in the lobby—I hated that they made me leave, it’s not fair, especially since you wanted me to stay—when a policeman approached me. At first, I was confused. Then, he asked me what I knew about Ryan Ross. So, I explained what I knew about your situation—I tried to make it as concise as possible—and he told me about what happened to Ryan.” Dallon took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. He grabbed Brendon’s good hand and massaged his palm in a comforting manner. "It's not good." 

“What happened to him?” Brendon asked quietly. He didn’t understand what Dallon was going on about. What happened to Ryan? Didn’t he run? He didn’t voice those questions aloud, just waited patiently for Dallon to continue.

“Brendon, I-I'm sorry,” Dallon whispered, biting his already-abused lip. “He killed himself. Ryan’s dead."


	10. It Was What He Deserved.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He walked up to the front desk. “I’m here to see Brendon Urie?” The nurse who was working at the front desk lifted her head, obviously uninterested in her job. Dallon regretted asking to see him, instead of taking advantage of her unwatchfulness and sneaking by. Too late.
> 
> “Are you related to him in any way?” the nurse asked, tone bored. She traced her paper with an open pen, drawing lines over the paper.
> 
> Dallon thought on his feet. “I’m his boyfriend,” he lied again. There was no shame in lying about it since he had done it before. It’s not like Brendon would know, and whatever it took to see him, right? “He knows that I’m coming back to see him.” The nurse raised an eyebrow at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 9k long so if there are grammar mistakes, forgive me. i typed it all in basically one day. its almost 20 pages on word, 11 font, times new roman. jeez.
> 
> this took way too long but i'm proud of it. 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy

_“Brendon, I-I'm sorry,” Dallon whispered, biting his already-abused lip. “He killed himself. Ryan’s dead."_

Dallon studied Brendon, his heart hurting more than he ever thought it could (he was sure that it was breaking, it was in so much pain), as Brendon’s eyes went impossibly wide. He wasn’t reacting verbally, no, far from it. Dallon could see the whites of Brendon’s eyes too clearly, they were stretched do wide. He wanted to reach out and trace the side of Brendon’s face with his fingers as  _some way_  to comfort him; he wanted to do something—it was too cruel to just watch him.

“Brendon?” Dallon asked, tone soft, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. It was like he was trying to swallow cotton balls. He tried to reach for Brendon’s unbroken arm but he jerked away in a painful manner. Dallon saw him bite his cheek against the pain that must have shot up his body. “Brendon, please,” Dallon begged.

That line flashed Dallon back to the night just 4 days before then for a second. He could see his past-self pleading with Brendon to  _please some with him,_ to  _please just trust him_. He could see Brendon shaking his head, adamant that he was an awful boyfriend and had to stay for  _Ryan._

“How?” Brendon’s voice brought him out of the flashback. “How did it happen?” Brendon’s tone was harsh. His throat had gargled and spit out the question like it was venom being rejected by his body. His knuckles were white with the strain of gripping his blanket. Dallon watched as he captured his lips with his teeth, chewing it from anxiety.

Dallon didn’t respond, once again reaching for Brendon’s hand as a system of comfort but only getting an upset glare in response. He was suffering and Dallon wasn’t offended—he understood. Brendon was hurting and it was just a matter of time until he broken down. Dallon almost didn’t want to be there while it happened, though he knew it was going to happen.

“Tell me, please, Dallon.” Brendon was begging and Dallon felt his resolve beginning to dissolve with each new word Brendon formed. He was too innocent, too scared, too far into Dallon’s cold heart for Dallon to not tell him.

“Brendon, I-I don’t know if now is—” Dallon began, holding his hand up.

“Bull- _crap,_ ” Brendon spit out, cutting him off with venom. Dallon was taken aback; he had never seen this side of Brendon. ( _Well, you’ve known him for not even a week,_  Dallon thought.) He shifted his weight from foot to foot, thinking of how he was going to explain it.

“Alright,” Dallon whispered, before continuing louder, “I’ll tell you.” He sat down on the edge of Brendon’s bed, holding his breath as he waited for Brendon to spring up and knock him off, but it never happened. He slowly let the breath out of his nose. With another deep breath, he began his story.

 _Dallon was sat in the hospital waiting room, trying to substantiate what was occurring and what his life was turning out to be. It was, to be frank, scary to him that Brendon seemed to like him so much. The look on his face_ — _the look of_ caring— _sent a shockwave deep through his being._

 _He was too far in. (_ But that was okay,  _he thought. He was bathed in anxiety and that was okay.)_

 _The pain of raking his too-long nails down his scalp brought him back to Earth. Loud noises of the room consumed him_ — _the crying of a newborn baby; the broken sobs of a mother in the corner; the screeching of an angry toddler. For a second, he forgot_ why _he was there. He forgot the events of the past few days. He could breathe for the first time in days._

_He forced himself deeper into his plastic hospital chair, trying to find the most “comfortable” spot. The wall facing him was off-white and generally uninteresting, not giving him any semblance of entertainment. He dug his elbows into his thighs and leaned forward on his arms, head in his hands. He massaged his temples as best as he could._

_All he wanted to do was go and run back to Brendon and give him a big hug. He couldn’t believe that they made him leave when Brendon obviously wanted him to stay! He scoffed at the incompetent nurses and their inability to realize that maybe their patients should have someone stay with them if they want it. Maybe, though, it was Dallon who needed someone with him._

_(Not that he would admit that. Human touch was something one wants, not needs. Definitely. That’s how he felt. 100%.)_

_Suddenly, Dallon’s head shot up and he reached for his phone, which was somewhere in his pocket. He fished it out moments later, half-bent and containing no new messages. He wasn’t sure why Spencer wasn’t replying to him. It was 8:30 in the morning_ — _and they had work, Dallon realized with a jolt_ — _so why hadn’t Spencer checked his phone?_

_It didn’t bother him, per se, he just wanted someone to vent to and to give an update on Brendon. (Wow, he never thought he’d say that again.)_

_Dallon had only slept maybe 2 hours total the night before, and only 5 the night before that. His eyelids were drooping and it was no doubt that his dark circles would rival a girl_ —Or Pete, _he thought with a delirious laugh_ — _who had slept in her eyeliner. Rubbing his eyes and staring blankly at the wall in front of him, he tried to not fall asleep. A monumental task._

_As he was nearly pitching forward in his seat, his phone buzzed unexpectantly. He held it up to his ear before realizing that it was, in fact, a text. He unlocked his phone and found that it was from Spencer._

**From: Spencer Smith (“Spin”) [8:45:09]**

Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I went home and fell asleep and just woke up now. Is Brendon okay??? Call me ASAP.

_Dallon stifled a yawn. Of course, Spencer wanted to talk over the phone. Oh, joy. Dallon pulled himself out of the chair and typed a quick response to Spencer while making his way out of the hospital with as much haste as possible._

_He called Spencer, awaiting the dial tone while tapping his toe impatiently. Spencer picked up immediately to Dallon’s immense relief. He wanted to get this over and pass out on the chair again._

“Dallon?” _Spencer’s voice asked through Dallon’s tinny speakers?_

_“I’m here,” Dallon replied, tugging at his hair to ease his anxiety. He still hated talking on the phone. “I’m here.”_

“Is Brendon okay?”  _Spencer asked again. Dallon could sort of imagine him pacing around his apartment_ — _though he had never seen it_ — _biting his lip in worry. Spencer seemed to be always biting his lip_ — _something Dallon noticed. He picked up on these small things, like how Brendon always balled up his fists in whatever was in hand’s reach._

 _“He’s fine,” Dallon said tersely. “He’s awake, but they sort of kicked me out of his hospital room.” Dallon took a deep breath. “Spencer, it was my fault that this happened. If I hadn’t wanted to confront Ryan_ — _” Spencer cut him off._

"It was in no way your fault! If any, it was mine. It was destined for this to happen eventually; maybe that'll get Brendon away from Ryan. Dallon, it's okay."  _From over the phone, Dallon could hear faintly that Spencer had kicked a wall or something. His heavy breathing filled the line._

 _“Fine,” Dallon conceded easily, not wanting another confrontation, “but still, he’s hurt. A broken wrist, ankle, concussion, ribs. I want to help him but I_ can’t _,” Dallon all but wailed. He paced across the sidewalk, chest uncomfortably full of something akin to anxiety but more powerful. He coughed._

“And that’s not your fault,” _Spencer replied._ “ _None_ of it. You were doing what you thought was right.”

_“I stayed with him overnight, you know? I told him about my past, thinking he was asleep… but he wasn’t. I don’t know how to feel.” Dallon knew that he hadn’t informed Spencer about what has happened in his past, either, but he hoped that Spencer still knew a way to comfort him. Or that he picked up that it wasn’t the best._

“Do you feel any better? I obviously don’t know the details—I don’t want to pry—” Too late, _Dallon thought. It was… okay, he guessed for Spencer to, though. He didn’t mind as much as he would with someone like Brent, their coworker. He… trusted Spencer. “_ —but I’m assuming that it wasn’t great.”

_“Yeah,” Dallon whispered with an awkward laugh following it. “I’ll tell you, if you want to know, something. Not today. Not now. We have a bigger fish to fry.”_

“Understandable.”  _Dallon rubbed the back of his neck, biting down on his lip._ “Are you okay, though?” _Spencer asked. Dallon froze at the easy question, his breath caught in his throat. Should he be honest?_

_“Not particularly,” he said. Honesty it was, he guessed. “But that’s fine.”_

“Dallon…” _Spencer warned._

_“I’m fine,” Dallon snapped, running another hand through his hair. Back to lies. “It’s fine. I’ve got to go, Spencer. I’m going to go see if they’re let me back into Brendon’s room.” Another lie, he wanted to be in peace for a few minutes._

“If you say so, Dallon. Okay. Text me if any more details about Ryan and where he went come to light. You can always talk to me if you need to, Dallon,”  _Spencer added quietly._

_“Okay,” Dallon agreed without further thought. He hung up before Spencer could say anything else. With a heavy sigh, he let his arms fall to his side. He felt drained, beat down, in pain. In the middle of the sidewalk he sunk to his knees, head in the familiar place of his arms. Under the cover of his hands, he let out a few quiet tears._

_He didn’t care anymore about people seeing him. Let them think what they will. It doesn’t make him any less of a person. It’s not like they would ever see him again, anyway._

_Dallon composed himself a minute later, scrambling to his feet and wiping his face off with a sigh. The bitter saltiness of his tears still somehow reached his tongue, reminding him of his moment of weakness. He strode into the hospital again a moment later, crashing into the nearest chair, disregarding any other people in the way. His legs had nearly given out on the short walk inside._

_Back in a non-moving seat, in a mess of too-long legs and anxiety, Dallon forced back any semblance of emotion that was bubbling up. He took a shaky breath, his stomach flipping uncomfortably. There he remained for an unknown amount of time._

_He must have fallen asleep at one point or another because he was woken up by a tall policeman tapping his shoulder insistently. “Sir,” the man said, a tad rushed. “Mr. Weekes.” Dallon’s head shot up, his neck cracking loudly._

_“Y-Yes?” he asked, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. The policeman relaxed, leaning back on his heels. Dallon studied him for a second: peeking out under his uniform was a sleeve of tattoos, he had a messy head of curls, and his pants were too tight to be regulation._

_“Mr. Weekes,” the policeman repeated, a bit softer than before. “Are you affiliated with Mr. Brendon Urie?” He seemed to hate speaking in such a formal way. Still hesitant and half-asleep, Dallon nodded._

_“Yes sir, I was the one who called 9-1-1 when I came across him.” Dallon’s voice was stiff and robotic. He was trying his best to appear as unemotional as possible, even to the laid-back officer. The police officer arched an eyebrow, blue eyes dancing._

_He hummed his acknowledgment and dug around for his badge for a second, before holding it up with a smirk. “I’m Officer Joe Trohman_ — _you can call me Joe or Trohman or officer, I don’t care_ — _and I came to inform you about Mr. Ryan Ross. I’m assuming that you know him.” Dallon nodded slightly, still confused._

_“I do, but why are you speaking to me rather than Brendon directly?” Dallon asked._

_“They won’t let me into the hospital room,” Officer Trohman said sheepishly, cheeks turning a pale pink. Dallon sighed; of course. The incompetent nurse's strike again. “I asked a nurse that was working with him about who I could talk to and they pointed me to you. They said you were his boyfriend.”_

_Dallon felt a blush build up. “I-I’m not,” he stuttered out to Officer Trohman’s raised eyebrow. “It was the only way they would let me into his room.”_

_“Of course,” Officer Trohman replied with a smirk, eyeing Dallon up and down. “But I assume that you’ll tell Mr. Urie the details of what going on with Mr. Ross. They were dating, correct?”_

_“Yes,” Dallon said. The use of ‘were dating’ made him curious. He slowly unstuck himself from his chair, standing up and stretching. He was acutely aware of the drying tears on his face as he tried to inconspicuously rub his eyes. If Officer Trohman noticed, he thankfully didn’t ask about it. It must have been normal for him to see people crying. “Have you found Ross?” Dallon was genuinely curious._

_“Yes, sir, but not in the way you’d expect_ —”  _He was interrupted by the hospital doors swinging open, slamming against the wall with force. Dallon’s gaze was drawn towards the noise, as was the officer’s. All he could see, though, was the back of the heads off a few EMT’s who were dragging a gurney._

_It wasn’t until they were passing by in a rush did Dallon get to see the figure lying there, effectively answering Dallon’s next question. He covered his mouth to muffle a gasp, something that was very unlike him._

_It was Ryan Ross._

_He was soaked to the bone, pale face covered by wet, dark hair. His skin was too pale to be alive and Dallon couldn’t see any movement. He was gone as fast as he had arrived._

_“He_ — _He’s dead?” Dallon choked out, unsure if he was actually seeing Ryan laying there. In the part of his mind that wasn’t blinded by pure anger towards the man, he felt something akin to sadness over his death. He couldn’t go to jail or get help, then._

_Officer Trohman nodded, his curly hair bouncing about. He moved it out of his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said._

_Dallon shook his head. “I barely knew him,” he explained. “Heck, I barely know Brendon. But this man abused Brendon, which is why we’re all here. I’m sad over his death, but now he can’t atone for his crimes.”_

_Officer Trohman nodded, though he seemed hesitant to do so. “I understand. If you want to know, the cause of death is still unknown_ — _well, it was drowning, obviously_ — _but we aren’t sure of the motive. Suicide is highly suspected, given that there were no signs of a struggle and no marks on his flesh, minus accidental or self-inflicted ones. His car was parked right outside of the nearby lake in town.”_

_Dallon didn’t respond. Suicide… he never thought that that would happen with Ryan. Well, he didn’t know what was going on in his head, though he seemed too mean to kill himself. (Subconsciously, it almost made some bitter amount of sense. Maybe Ryan felt bad for the way he treated Brendon and felt that this was his punishment. He didn’t know how on the nose he was._

_“Drowning,” Dallon mused. “An interesting way of death.”_

_“One last way to suffer,” Officer Trohman said. “It’s not as fast as hanging yourself or using a gun. It’s painful.” He sounded robotic, as if he was reading off of a teleprompter._

_“Christ,” Dallon said. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to appear_ — _distraught, uninterested, accepting, or joyous? None seemed to fit the situation. None of it was enough for Brendon. He couldn’t even begin to_ think _about how Brendon was going to respond to this._

_Officer Trohman checked his watch and sighed, stuffing the badge that he was still holding into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weekes, but I have to leave you here. Other calls, and the like. I’m sorry that I had to be the one to deliver the news.”_

_Dallon sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “It’s fine,” he said lamely. It was really just for the lack of knowing what else to say. “Thank you again, Officer.”_

_“Have a nice day, Mr. Weekes. Here_ — _” he shoved a card into Dallon’s hand “_ — _if you need someone in the law to call, hit me up. I’m always around to help.” He turned on his boot-covered heel and strode out of the waiting room, leaving Dallon standing there, alone. He didn’t even give him time to respond._

_Dallon collapsed into the chair behind him, head down. What was he going to do? His day just got way more complicated._

Text Spencer, _he thought. There was no denying it_ — _it was inevitable. Spencer_ had _asked him to keep him posted on Ryan and Brendon; Dallon, despite his other flaws, wasn’t one to break his promises._

 _After finding his phone deep in his pockets, he wasn’t sure how to word his text without sounding insensitive._ “Hey, by the way, I just found out that Ryan killed himself. Cheers! Talk to you later.”  _Definitely not._

 _He decided on something along the lines of:_ “Hi, Spencer. Something has been brought to light, so to say. A police offer has just informed me that Ryan is dead.” _And sent it off without another second thought. It didn’t matter, he had a bigger fish to fry, anyway._

_Telling Brendon._

_That was going to be an event. Dallon didn’t want to be the one to break the news_ — _who did?_  — _but he knew that it was up to him. It’s not like the officer was going to come back and be nice enough to brief Brendon for him. Like he said, the nurses wouldn’t let him in. It was time to face the music._

 _He stood up, nearly taking the tiny plastic chair with him. Dallon stuffed his cell phone in his pocket and purposely strode out of the waiting, not caring_ — _for once_ — _that it was obvious that he had cried. It was a hospital, for God’s sake! People cried all the damn time there._

_The thundering of his heart overtook any fears of being stopped by the nurses. Anyway, if you look confident enough they won’t suspect anything. He was going to get into that room and there was no way that they could stop him._

_To his surprise and relief, there were no nurses circulating to room or the door. He shut his eyes tightly for a heartbeat, took a deep breath, and opened the door to Brendon’s room, palms sweating._

“And here I am,” Dallon explained, falling silent and breathing heavy from talking for so long. He hadn’t told Brendon the part of the story that contained Spencer or him crying—he suspiciously rubbed his eyes, facing away from Brendon—because it was an unnecessary point. It didn’t add to the fact that Ryan was dead.

Brendon seemed unable to respond, frozen, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water. “I…” he trailed off. Dallon watched as he balled up the sheet in his fist, tugging at it. He looked down at the bed for a second, body trembling; when he lifted his head a minute later, Dallon could see tears in his eyes. They were bubbling up, clumping Brendon’s eyelashes together. “He never told me…”

“Why would he?”

“I was his  _boyfriend_ , Dallon… he could’ve talked to me.” Brendon seemed to be in disbelief. “Why didn’t he tell me? Did he not trust me? I was an awful boyfriend, that’s why… now he’s gone.” He sucked in a painful-sounding breath with a half-sob.

“Brendon,” Dallon said gently, reaching out to lay a hand on Brendon’s shaking shoulder. His fingers only just brushed his arm when he jerked away from the touch, angrily shaking his head. Tears were streaming down his face, his brown eyes rimmed an impossible red. Brendon did nothing about them. “He abused you,” Dallon continued, not trying to touch Brendon again. “He wasn’t in his right mine. It wasn’t your fault. I-I’m sorry that it had to happen this way, though.”

“He loved me,” Brendon whispered. To Dallon, his tone was absolutely heartbreaking. “H-He loved me. Why didn’t he tell me? Why?” Brendon was yelling, his voice cracking with emotion. Dallon quickly shushed him, glancing over his shoulder nervously just in case someone was passing by and investigated. That would lead to Dallon getting kicked out.

“Brendon,” Dallon repeated. He tried to put his hand down on Brendon’s shoulder. To his relief, he allowed Dallon to, slumping down in defeat. His lip was quivering dangerously. “I’m sorry.” Dallon’s hands were shaking as he clumsily clasped Brendon’s shoulder tightly, trying to comfort him.

He sank to his knees beside Brendon, not letting go of Brendon’s shoulder. He head-butted Brendon’s arm, almost like a cat. It was a last-ditched attempt to comfort him or make him laugh. He couldn’t do it through words, though he knew he looked (and felt) completely ridiculous but it didn’t matter anymore. Brendon let out a watery laugh.

“You’re a d-dork,” he stumbled out. Dallon lifted his head up and stood unsteadily. Brendon’s eyes were shining and he was still shaking.

Dallon took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “D-Do you want a… hug?” It came out more as a question than he intended. Brendon looked at him oddly before nodding. It was obvious that he was very hesitant but, then again, so was Dallon.

He stooped down again, knees bent slightly and opened his arms. What was he doing” This wasn’t him. More specifically, he guessed, what was this kid doing to him? Those thoughts swarmed Dallon’s mind as he leaned down over Brendon, scooping him in a (very) awkward embrace.

The contact made Dallon’s face flame as Brendon buried his wet face in his neck, his warm breath tickling in. They stayed in that position for a few seconds before he could feel Brendon’s shaking get progressively more violent. From beneath him, he heard Brendon breath in a sob. Without further ado, Brendon began to cry again, warm tears coating the inside of Dallon’s neck.

“I-I’m sorry,” Brendon gasped. Dallon squeezed him as tightly as he could dare, hyper aware of Brendon’s injuries. “I-I d-don’t k-know w-what’s,” he gasped out another sob, shaking, “u-up with m-me.”

“It’s okay,” Dallon mumbled automatically, as caring as he could manage. “Don’t worry at all. You deserve to cry. It’s been a long few days.” He rocked Brendon awkwardly, given their pacing on his tiny bed. Dallon was on the edge of his bed, cradling Brendon, who was sitting up as best he could.

“I-I’m sorry,” Brendon whispered again, digging his nose further into Dallon’s neck. Dallon prayed to any god that he could think of that no nurse made their way into the room to check on Brendon. It would be mortifying to him.

Soon enough, Brendon’s sobbing sputtered out, leaving him sniffling and half-falling asleep. Dallon knew that his neck was a slick mess of tears and—most likely, anyway—snot. He resisted the innate urge to move Brendon to wipe it away, knowing that it might hurt Brendon. A minute a gently rocking Brendon later, he tried his best to gently move Brendon away, using his sleeve to wipe away his tears.

He laid Brendon down onto his flat pillow, knowing that he was about to fall asleep. Crying like that tired one out like nothing else Dallon could imagine. “Go to sleep,” Dallon hushed at Brendon’s pitiful noises of complaints at being moved. It seemed that Brendon  _liked_  being hugged by him, something that hasn’t happened in a while. The never ceased to surprise him. “It's okay. I’m here, I’m here.”

It sounded like he was speaking to a baby and baby-talk or cuddling was something that he rarely did. He was never this comforting, this warm, this  _human._  It was new to him. Brendon brought out this side of him like no one else. Better yet, he felt comfortable enough around Brendon to even be like that. Not even his cats—whom he loved dearly when he lived at home—could bring out this side of him.

Brendon finally unhinged his ungodly grip from Dallon’s warm body and was lying, tears staining and marring his face, on his bed. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Dallon bit his lip, worried, and tried his best to wipe of Brendon’s face, praying that Brendon didn’t wake up, as he was definitely asleep. To his luck, he didn’t stir.

Dallon stayed on the edge of the bed for another 30 minutes or so, running his hands through Brendon’s greasy hair—he needed a shower—and humming to himself. When he was sure that Brendon wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon, he quietly slipped off the bed.

He decided against leaving a note—he would probably be back soon enough—and slipped out of the room, coat wrapped tight around his body. He paused at the doorway for a second, peering back at Brendon’s sleeping body.

Dallon shut the door with one last thought:  _Christ, he is small._

 

 

Dallon stepped briskly into the chilly morning, phone in hand, idly scrolling. While he was with Brendon, Spencer had replied to him, saying that he was going to be at Ryan and Brendon’s at around 11 Am to look for clues about Ryan’s death. Dallon had no choice but to go, it’s not like he had other plans. Brendon should be asleep for a while, also.

He found out, thankfully, that the hospital happened to be rather close to the shop. It was a stroke of luck, a bright line of sunshine in an otherwise unfortunate day. He was strolling up to the shop, thoughts stuck on Brendon’s sleeping face, when the clock struck 11. A nearby church rang in the new hour.

He noted that the street looked different than how he remembered from the night before. Though it did makes sense, his perception from the night before was distorted from the trauma (events?) that happened; he wasn’t in his right mind. He ran a hand through his hair—he really needed a shower, too, he realized—and looked around for Spencer. As his fingers were poised to send him a text, Spencer came jogging up like the annoying gym freak he was.

“Dallon!” Spencer called, shaking out his sweat-coated, cheeks bright red. A drop slipped down his face. He must have been freezing in the morning air; the temperature was hovering at a steady 28 degrees, according to Dallon’s weather app.

If he looked closer at Spencer’s sweat-covered face, Dallon was sure that he could see the remnants of tears—red-rimmed eyes and a puffy complexion. Though, that could be from the running. Dallon didn’t run—he avoided it when all possible—so he wouldn’t really know how you look if you ran in the cold. Most likely something like that.

“Spencer,” Dallon greeted coolly. His breath misted in front of him. “How are you?” He fidgeted with his jacket sleeve, pulling at the fraying threads carefully. With a glance up at the apartment to his right, he realized that his good jacket was most likely up in there somewhere. Good, he can finally get it.

“I’m fine,” Spencer replied, equally as cool. Dallon watched as he visibly shivered—he must have warmed up in his jog but it was obvious that the morning air was getting to him. Dallon wanted to give him his jacket but it would be too cold without it. “How are you, though?” Dallon could hear the double meaning as clear as day

“Fine.” He knew that he was being terse but he felt like he had a good reason to, or just an excuse. The lack of sleep made him feel like he was seconds away from passing out. His knees felt weak.

“And Brendon?” Dallon wasn’t sure what happened between the two of them—Spencer normally didn’t try to have as formal inflection as Dallon did. Or be as snappy. Dallon must have been rubbing off on him.

“Asleep, I presume,” Dallon replied with a grimace. He was hoping that Brendon didn’t wake up to his absence; he knew the feeling of waking up alone in the hospital and was sure it would serve to freak Brendon out more. “I hope,” he added in an afterthought.

Spencer dug his toe into the grassy section on the side of the road. “Ready?” It was an eerie echo of when they had first confronted Ryan. It seemed like ages ago to Dallon. So much had changed from his demeanor on New Year’s Eve. He barely remembers the party that he had escaped.

“As I’ll ever be.” A moment of silence, where neither of them made a gesture of movement. Dallon waited for Spencer to go first. “It feels weird,” Dallon admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Going into a dead person’s apartment, I mean.”

Spencer looked at him for a long—uncomfortable—moment. “I guess,” he conceded. “It doesn’t feel like he’s dead, you know? It’s a weird feeling.” Dallon could see Spencer’s face fall for just a second, lost in thought.

“How are you holding up?” Dallon asked awkwardly before his brain could stop him. He knew that Spencer and Ryan had a past and this was the first time he considered that Spencer could be affected by Ryan’s sudden death. He should’ve thought about it earlier.

He watched as Spencer picked at his shorts, acting as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “I’m…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “Fine.” Oh well, at least Dallon tried. Spencer would tell him when he was ready and Dallon respected that.

They didn’t speak again, only moving silently to enter the shop at least. There was no caution tape, so Dallon assumed it was safe (or legal) for them to enter the shop. The door was unlocked still, to their luck, and Dallon pushed it open with a small, inaudible grunt. They were greeted with a small gust of warm air.

Spencer, with a nod to Dallon, rushed in, disregarding any possible dangers. Dallon didn’t expect that just looking around the room would cause a flood of memories and emotions, but it did.  For a second he felt like he did before: anxious, enraged, and terrified out of his mind. His knees almost buckled under the sudden barrage of feelings. A sharp exhale left his nose. Spencer turned back to face him, eyebrow cocked in a silent question.

“I’m okay,” Dallon assured, though he wasn’t. He just tried to distract himself by studying the layout of the shop. It wasn’t  _that_  big but it was stocked full of flowers and other flower necessities, which made sense.

“If you say so,” Spencer replied skeptically. “I’m always here, though, Dallon.”  _And he was back,_ Dallon thought. He was almost worried because of Spencer’s change in tone and action with him. It almost made him feel… bad. Or annoyed because of the change. Cursed friendship. (Though, rest assured, he didn’t regret being friends with Spencer. Just don’t tell him that.)

“I know,” Dallon said, feigning grumpiness. “Thanks.”

Spencer didn’t reply and only shot Dallon an infuriatingly bright smile and made his way deeper into the shop, going to search for whatever he planned to. Dallon wasn’t sure exactly what they were looking for if he was being honest. A suicide note, possibly? Oh, yeah, and his jacket. The one that Brendon took on accident and that he needed back soon. It was his favorite.

Dallon peered around the room, his gaze finally bringing him to the landing at the bottom of the staircase.  _Oh._  The concrete floor was stained with drying blood—Brendon’s blood, he realized with a jolt—and there were the dirty footprints of the EMTs who came, surrounding the stain. He kneeled next to it with a sigh.

He heard Spencer whistle from across the shop, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Find anything exciting?” Dallon called, standing up again and cautiously side-stepping the dried blood and sitting back down on the staircase. He ran his hands over his jeans.

“Ryan just has—had—a lot of flowers. That’s all,” Spencer yelled back, voice suspiciously cracking. Against his better judgment and his ideas of how he felt, Dallon’s heart clenched painfully. It was clear to him that Spencer was affected by Ryan’s death—they had  _dated_ , for God’s sake! —but he didn’t want to overstep his bounds by pressing further.

( _You kissed him, you know,_  a sly voice whispered.  _That was a clear definition of overstepping his bounds._ Dallon told it to shut up then promptly realized that he was crazy for speaking to himself. Not that he would change that.)

“Well, I guess that makes sense, since this is a flower shop.” It came out more sarcastic than Dallon intended and he sucked in a breath. “Sorry.”

Spencer was silent for a long, painful moment. The only sound that could be heard was the wind battering the shut windows and doors. “You’re right,” he heard Spencer say. Cue a deep, shaky breath that was so loud even Dallon could hear it from across the shop. “You’re right. Sorry.”

Dallon didn’t trust himself to respond. He pulled himself up using the handrail and absently ambled up the stairway, stuck in his own thoughts. Each heavy, thumping step reminded him that Brendon actually  _fell down_  these stairs, most likely slamming his fragile head against each step. He could have  _died_. And it was all Ryan’s fault.

A rush of anger swarmed him and, for a second, he had no regrets over Ryan’s suicide. Ryan could have killed Brendon. He could’ve gone to jail for  _murder._

He was brought to real life once again when he ran smack into a closed wooden door. The anger that he was feeling dissipated, like a drain was opened beneath him. He felt dry, exhausted and was tempted to collapse against the door. It was his strong grip on the door handle that kept his knees from buckling.

A few strong, steady breaths later he was standing again, leaning against the door. He studied the upstairs carefully; behind him was the closed door—he presumed it to be a bedroom—and in front of him, there was the staircase. To his immediate left, there was a darkened, shadowed hallway. That was something that peaked his interest—he guessed that Ryan must have escaped using that hallway to leave unmonitored.

Dallon, with a quick glance down the stairs to where Spencer was making some clanking noises, swiftly moved down the hallway. It felt like a horror movie. The hallway was long and dark, his shadow dancing in the low light. In his distracted state, he was surprised when it opened, without warning, to a larger room. A living room, Dallon guessed. It looked as so.

It was almost pitch-black, too. The room seemed cozy enough to Dallon, from what he could see—a large, squishy couch in front of an older-appearing television. There was a keyboard in the corner, surrounded by fairy lights. It had a ‘lived in’ appeal. It felt like the life that Dallon craved oh-so-much.

A window on the far wall of the room had thick blinds covering it, blocking any source of natural light. Dallon leaned back against the table that lined the wall opposite of the window, palms flat over it. He played the fun, yet sad game of “What happy memories happened in this room?”

That only served to depress him further. He could imagine them being sickeningly romantic in this room, feeding each other popcorn during a movie that they both loved. He could imagine Brendon playing the piano—not that he knew if he could—while Ryan watched happily. It made Dallon bleed with jealousy. From there, though, it got darker. His thoughts dove into a pool of pure black ink, Ryan slapping or somehow otherwise hurting Brendon, him yelling at him, Brendon crying out. That still didn’t change his sick jealousy.

Minus the fact, you know, that Ryan was  _dead_  and he was actually jealous of an abusive relationship that even included—to add to his messed up perception—someone who literally committed suicide. Dallon was sick.

He was seconds away from storming back down the hallway—there was nothing to see and he had a romantic date with the wall outside, it was calling him—when his sweaty palm slipped and knocked over a pot that he hadn’t noticed.

It fell to the ground with a loud  _crash!_ , breaking into dozens of pieces and scattering all over the once immaculate wood floor. (Was Brendon forced to clean, too? He wasn’t sure.) Dallon heard Spencer yell something from downstairs—it was too soft to hear clearly—and he bent down to carefully clear up the shards.

He swept the glass as best as he could; the darkness didn’t help but he somehow got it into a sort-of pile. With one last pass-through as he heard Spencer’s footfalls on the stairs, Dallon hissed as he cut his palm on a particularly sharp shard. Warm blood flooded his hand as he heard Spencer clamber through the door with a huff.

“Dallon?” Spencer gasped out, trying to draw in a breath. Dallon couldn’t see him—he was kneeling with his back to the door—but he knew that Spencer was leaning against the chair that lined the edge of the room. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Dallon grit out, pain obvious in his voice. It tinged his voice like the blood running out of his hand. “I just dropped a vase and cut my hand. I’m okay.”

“You cut your hand?” Spencer sounded a concerned mother. “Here, turn on the light—let my see your palm.”

“Spencer, I’m fine, really.”

“ _Dallon,_ ” Spencer warned and Dallon shut up. Dallon heard him run his hands over the wall, searching for a light switch. “Aha!” He flipped the light on. Dallon hissed at the exposure—he was in the dark for too long. He looked up to see Spencer’s flushed face.

A line of blood had traveled down his arm and was steadily dripping onto his jeans. “Jeez, Dallon.” He dabbed at the cut with his sleeve, shushing Dallon as he pushed out a breath of pain. The cut was deep, deeper than he thought it could’ve been. “Wait,” Spencer said suddenly, frozen with his sleeve still pressing on Dallon’s cut. It was painful.

“Why— _ouch_ ,” Dallon replied.

“There’s a note, beside you.” Dallon hadn’t noticed it. Spencer pointed at it with his free hand and kicked at it helplessly. Dallon turned on the spot, Spencer still not letting go of Dallon’s hand. He picked it up and noticed that there was some blood on it, but not Dallon’s blood. It was too dry to be.

“What do you think it is?” Dallon asked, still grimacing in pain. He bit his lip.

“Not sure, open it,” Spencer directed. With his non-hurt hand, Dallon unfurled it and read it quickly. It appeared to have been written in a hurry and Dallon could barely read it. “What does it say?” Spencer pressed, letting Dallon’s hand go. It fell lamely to his side, still leaking blood sluggishly.

“Here, I can’t read it.” Dallon shoved the letter—he assumed—into Spencer’s hand and moved to cradle his injury. It ached in time with his thundering heart. Whatever he could read on the note wasn’t promising one bit. It could be a suicide note.

Spencer’s face contorted to one of confusion. “It’s Ryan’s handwriting,” Spencer mumbled, scanning the paper. Dallon watched his reaction closely until, suddenly, Spencer’s jaw dropped. His mouth was wide open and Dallon saw his hand begin to shake heavy. “It-It’s R-Ryan’s—”

“Ryan’s what?” Dallon demanded, clenching his fist despite the pain. Spencer’s wide eyes met his and he shook his head.

“It-It’s h-his s-suicide note, Dal. It’s his suicide note!” Spencer’s tone was heavy with panic, gaining volume so at the end of his statement he was pretty much screaming. Dallon resisted the urge to cover his ears but his mind was racing nonetheless.

“C-Can you read it out loud,” Dallon requested calmly. “Please?” Spencer took a couple calming breaths.

“Do y-you want me to?”

“If you can… I want to know if he mentioned why he treated Brendon the way he did. That’s what mattered—did he apologize? Did he offer Brendon an explanation for how he treated him? Was he repentant?

“He did,” Spencer whispered. “H-He did.” It almost seemed like he wasn’t going to read it, but before Dallon could press further, he took a deep breath and began:

" _Dear Whoever Gives a Single Damn,_

 

_I have one thing to say: I'm sorry, Brendon. I treated you the way I did because I was messed up on the head. You were everything and I was nothing. So, I took my anger out on you._

 

 _I wasn't made for love. I've always ruined all of my relationships. (I'm sorry, Spencer_ —" Spencer took a sharp breath "— _Jon, Pete, if you're reading this. I'm so sorry.) You, you were different. I loved you._

 

_I loved you so much I hated you. Tonight was the final straw. Love wasn't made for me. I hope that you find someone who treated you better than I did. I'm better off in death than I ever was in life._

 

_I hope this gets to you someday, Bren._

 

 _I'll see you in hell_ ," Spencer finished. The last line rang through the empty living room.  _I’ll see you in hell_. What a perfect was to end a suicide note? It must have been the Ryan Ross patented way.

 

Dallon and Spencer sat in harrowing silence for an innumerable amount of time, just thinking. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dallon watched as Spencer “inconspicuously” wiped off his face. That didn’t really matter, as more tears replaced them. Dallon chose not to comment on it.

 

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Dallon whispered. He couldn’t believe it; did Ryan actually have a heart? In his mind, he heard Brendon’s voice echo eerily,  _He loves me, he loves me, I swear. He has to._  It was all he could hear for a moment. He placed his hands over his ears.

 

“I don’t either,” Spencer agreed. Dallon moved his hands away from his ears. “Are you okay? It doesn’t look like it.” Leave it to Spencer to be blunt.

 

“I’m fine,” he assured quickly. “Just… surprised?”

 

“Confused, hurt, emotional?” Spencer supplied dryly, running a hand through his hair. “So am I. I never expected Ryan to admit his wrong doings. He would never, at least not when I knew him…”

 

“Why now?”

 

“It was a suicide note, Dal.” Dallon ignored the use of a nickname for him. “People usually be honest when they write them,” Spencer snapped. Dallon was taken aback, leaning on his heels in a painful manner—Spencer didn’t seem like the kind of guy to snap at you. He had to be calm, cool, and collected. At least for Dallon’s sake.

“You don’t have to be so snappy,” Dallon muttered.

 

“My ex-boyfriend slash ex-best friend just  _committed suicide_  and he mentioned me in his  _suicide note_.  _I think I deserve to be a bit snappish, Dallon Weekes._ ” Spencer’s tone was full of venom, but Dallon wasn’t offended. He knew that it wasn’t particularly directed at him. Well, some of it was but that didn’t matter. He deserved it. Spencer stood up and began to pace along the length of the living room, tugging at his hair.

 

Dallon pulled himself to his feet. He wiped his somehow still-bleeding hand off on his jeans and quietly approached Spencer. His boot-covered feet didn’t make much of a sound over the hardwood floor. As Spencer made his back towards Dallon’s side of the living room, Dallon caught him by the wrist and pulled him into a tight hug, Spencer’s face in his chest.

 

“Dallon—what are you—?” Spencer began, struggling against Dallon’s grip. It mirrored when Spencer had caught  _Dallon_  in a hug as a way to comfort him. Dallon didn’t want to think about the parallels.

 

“Don’t say anything,” Dallon cut him off, swaying them together. “Just… don’t. Calm down, okay? It’ll be okay, I promise.” He was trying his best to make this moment as painless as possible for the both of them. Especially himself, when it came to the whole initiating contact thing. It was already hard enough for him to meet Spencer’s eyes. He always got embarrassed when people realized that he cared about them; that’s how it was for Spencer. There, he admitted it. He cared for Spencer Smith. “What’s your middle name?” he asked suddenly.

 

“What—oh, James,” Spencer mumbled into his chest. Dallon froze, mid-sway.

 

“No way,” he said, disbelief in his tone. “That’s my middle name too!” Dallon allowed a chuckle to escape his lips.

 

Spencer let out a weak laugh. “You’re kidding.’

 

“Far from it,” Dallon assured. He let the smile melt off of his face. “How do you feel?” He felt like a damn counselor— _“How are you feeling, honey?_ ”

 

Spencer tensed again. “Still hurt. Annoyed. Sad. He was an asshole, but we were best friends, then boyfriends, for most of my childhood, you know?” No, he didn’t, but that didn’t matter. He could  _try_  to understand.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dallon said, a tad lame. He wasn’t exactly sure for  _what_ , though. Everything, perhaps. It didn’t even matter anymore. Spencer got the message, it seemed.

 

“Don’t be,” Spencer replied. He wiggled out of Dallon’s grasp as he awkwardly let him go. They stood in the dimly lit living room, in the house of a dead Ryan and Brendon. They were both unnaturally silent and Dallon’s face was a flaming red. He couldn’t believe that he  _did_  that; he hoped it meant something to Spencer as it did to him. “Should we go?” Spencer asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Dallon chuckled, glancing around the room. “Probably; it still feels strange to be in a dead man's home. We should go show Brendon this,” Dallon said, but he was reluctant. He  _knew_  that Brendon wasn’t going to react well to the note, given what was written in it.

 

Spencer coughed. “You mean that  _you_ should,” he said sheepishly. “I can’t… I-I have to do other… things…” Spencer trailed off, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Dallon felt hurt.

 

“Alright,” he conceded, a tad snarky and irritated. “Fine. Leave it to me.” Spencer dug his toe into the carpet, not meeting Dallon’s steady gaze.

 

“I can’t—I can’t say it to his face,” Spencer stressed. “ _Please_. He trusts you—you’ve already talked to him. I haven’t. I’ll make it up to you sometime.  _Please,_ Dallon.”

 

Dallon nodded jerkily, resigning himself to it. “I understand, Spencer. Go. I’ll keep you updated, okay?” Might as well let him leave and do the nonexistent things that he was going to do. But, he got it. Brendon apparently  _did_  trust him.

 

Relief flooded Spencer’s face. “Thank you, Dal. Thank you. I-I have to go now.” He flashed one more blinding smile at Dallon and spun on his heel, half-jogging out of the room. “I’ll make it up to you!” he called over his shoulder.

 

Dallon waited until Spencer was downstairs to whisper, “You already have.” He crumbled the note in his hand, the sound loud in the empty room. He face was flushed a bright red. “Believe me.”

 

 

 

The walk back to the hospital was cold and anxiety-inducing. It would have been colder if Dallon hadn’t remembered to search the house for his jacket; he found it underneath the cash register, all balled up. It was comforting to wear it.

 

As Dallon entered the hospital once again, he was sweating enough to fill a swimming pool and his heart was on overdrive, thundering in his ears. The note was crumbled in his sweaty, unhurt palm. The other one twinged occasionally.

 

He walked up to the front desk. “I’m here to see Brendon Urie?” The nurse who was working at the front desk lifted her head, obviously uninterested in her job. Dallon regretted asking to see him, instead of taking advantage of her unwatchfulness and sneaking by. Too late.

 

“Are you related to him in any way?” the nurse asked, tone bored. She traced her paper with an open pen, drawing lines over the paper.

 

Dallon thought on his feet. “I’m his boyfriend,” he lied again. There was no shame in lying about it since he had done it before. It’s not like Brendon would know, and whatever it took to see him, right? “He knows that I’m coming back to see him.” The nurse raised an eyebrow at him.

“Boyfriend?” she asked, a hint of venom in her voice. Dallon refused to sigh. He had heard the same tone in his own mother, and others in the past. He was used to it. This time, though, he could respond properly to the homophobia.

 

“Yes, boyfriend. We’re gay. We do gay things, give gay kisses, make gay music. Please just let me in and we won’t bother you, alright?” Dallon tried his best to keep his calm. He wasn’t in the mood to yell at her or get her superiors involved. He wasn’t the confrontational type and  _really_  didn’t want to be kicked out of the hospital. There was an end goal he had to accomplish.

 

“If you say so,” she lowered her voice, leaning in closer towards Dallon, nose wrinkled, “fag.” Dallon couldn’t believe that these nurses didn’t have any sense propriety. It’s the 21st century, you don’t just say that to someone in a venomous manner. Not that it bothered Dallon; the amount of times that both of his parents had spit it at him wore down any offense. It didn’t bother him one bit.

 

“Thanks, sweetie, of course I’m a fag!” Dallon said loudly in a faux-cheery and flamboyant voice. He placed his hand on his hip for the best measure, putting on a wide, fake smile mockingly. “I hope you have a fantabulous day!” he continued, overly sarcastic.

 

With a withering glare in the nurse’s genera; direction, Dallon stalked off, dropping the faux-cheery attitude as soon as he passed the nearest doorway, out of sight from the front desk. His knees felt weak from the adrenaline. He couldn’t believe he did that; it was nothing like him! (A sentiment he seemed to be repeating quite a bit these last few days. A big change for him, eh?)

 

He easily found Brendon’s room, it being a mere 100 feet from the waiting room. No nurses were in the area, another stroke of luck for him. Dallon paused at the door and gripped the suicide note tightly. He hoped that Brendon was asleep—the idea of him being awake terrified Dallon. If Brendon was asleep, it would give Dallon a much needed minute to compose himself. And figure out how in the world he was going to show the note to Brendon.

 

Dallon hesitantly pushed the door open and found, to his relief, Brendon was asleep. Wiping away the sweat that had collected on his brow, Dallon sank into a nearby chair, waiting for Brendon to wake up. He folded his hands in his lap, thinking, and studied the floor. Should he just hand him the note and not say anything? No, that wouldn’t be a good way. Brendon would hate him. (More than he should already, though apparently, he doesn’t.)

 

A loud yawn. “Dallon?” Brendon asked sleepily. Dallon raised his head slowly, eyes wide.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You came back!” Brendon exclaimed. Dallon didn’t respond, choosing to go the “take this and not say anything route” and shoved the note into Brendon’s half-outstretched palm.

 

“Read this,” Dallon choked out. He shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to meet Brendon’s gaze. He couldn’t take knowing that he was handing him his dead boyfriend's suicide note.

“Okay?” Brendon replied, confused. Dallon knew that he was still half-asleep but he felt like this was the best time to give it to Brendon. He couldn’t handle the anxiety for much longer.

 

“Read it now, please,” Dallon pushed, “and don’t be angry with me.”

 

“Why would I…? Dallon, what’s up?” Brendon asked, eyebrow raised. He didn’t wait for a sputtering response from Dallon and smoothed out the crunched not. His hands were shaking. Dallon couldn’t bear to watch him as he quickly scanned through the note.

 

Brendon let the note go. It fell to the floor. It was silent for about 30 seconds before Brendon let out of a choked cough. A tear dripped down his cheek. “I-I… he… he…” Brendon trailed off, giving up on the fight for words.

 

“Brendon—”

 

“H-He  _did_  love me,” Brendon whispered, cutting Dallon off. “B-B-But n-now h-he’s dead. I c-can n-never ap-apologize.” He buried his head into his arms with a loud, pitiful moan. Dallon moved to stand up but Brendon cried out: “Stay away from me! He  _loved_  me! It’s y-y-your fault that he’s dead.” Brendon left his head and met Dallon’s eyes. They were crazy and bitterly cold.

 

The air caught in Dallon’s throat. “Brendon, I-I don’t know what you mean.” Oh, but he did. He knew what  _exactly_  was cycling through Brendon’s head in that moment because he had done the same. It was  _Dallon_  who let him stay at his apartment when they were strangers, it was  _Dallon_  who was inexplicably drawn to Brendon, it was  _Dallon_  whose idea it was to confront Ryan personally,it was  _Dallon_  who stayed with Brendon and lied about being his boyfriend.

 

“It was all your fault. He loved me.  _He loved me_. And now he’s gone.” Brendon leaned over in the bed and scooped the note up, holding it close to his body.  Dallon wanted to pick out that Ryan had said it was  _his_  fault, and that he wasn’t “made for love”. But he didn’t, not exactly, at least.

 

“He  _abused_  you,” Dallon stressed, keeping his voice steady and calm. “ _Abused_  you, Brendon. His love was sick.”

 

“At least it was love,” Brendon said bitterly. “Just leave me alone. I’ll be fine. You’ve done enough.” Dallon knew, deep down, that Brendon didn’t mean it in the way that he was insinuating, but that didn’t matter. He pulled himself out of the uncomfortable chair, face purposely neutral.

 

“Fine!” he snapped. “I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone in the hospital with  _no one_. I’m sorry that I was trying to help you. I knew I couldn’t trust you. I was in too far and I regret it.” Dallon spun on his heel, stripping off his coat and leaving it on the hospital floor. It was a reminder of him. He began to walk for the door, seething.

 

“You got my boyfriend killed!” Brendon screeched.

 

“At least I gave a damn,” Dallon said, falsely calm, pausing at the door. Without another glance, without another word, nor listening to Brendon’s choked  _“Dallon!”_ , Dallon stalked down the hallway and out of the hospital.

 

He didn’t look back once.

 

And yes, he ignored the tears rolling down his face. Who would he be if he didn’t serve to ignore his emotions, just like before? It’s not like he was any different, strolling down past the flower shop on 5th street.

 

 

THE END?

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry. there might be another chapter but it depends on the amount of "why"s that I get. or how inspired i'm feeling. actually, knowing me, I'll make an alternate ending. let me know if you want that. 
> 
> it was going to be a happy ending, but it then took this turn. i'm not sorry but i am. 
> 
> i gave my life to this story. it's the longest thing i've written.


	11. We're All Alone in This Bitter World (Not Forever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's gone down, and, well, Dallon's a mess. Who knew words could be so hurtful? Luckily we have master soother, Spencer Smith, to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi... so i found this in my notes this evening, fixed it up a bit, added a (rather abrupt, i'd admit) ending, and bam. our final chapter, for those who wanted it. i'm sorry that it's probably not the ship you wanted but it was where my mind took me. 
> 
> note: i wrote this in january, most likely, and just never posted it. i'm sorry if it's crap.

Despite his outwardly appearance—bundled up, shivering in a violent manner against the bitter January winds—Dallon felt too warm inside. The wind bit at his cheeks, nipping and making him more miserable than before. He strolled down past the shop on fifth with a sad glance; he probably wouldn't be able to be able to force himself to pass it again.

He knew that it was a bad idea to get involved—look at him now! He got a man killed inadvertently, another in a hospital and he made a friend that obviously disliked him enough to not come with him. This wasn't his prime situation and he despised it. He—He couldn't believe what he had done.

Dallon shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, cheeks red from the cold. His boot-covered feet made thumping sounds on the frozen concrete, and he shivered again, regretting leaving his coat at the hospital. At least he had another one on. (Look, mother, at least I'm wearing layers! He thought bitterly.) If he hadn't been, he might have had to make his way back to the hospital, embarrassed. Not today, though.

He let out a bitter sigh, feelings the uncomfortable movement of tears building up behind his eyes. He bit his lip and looked up, eyes watering from the wind and... other reasons. It wasn't clear where he was—some side park somewhere—but that didn't matter. He was far away from that stupid hospital.

Dallon dug his heel into the grass and ambled over to a nearby half-frozen bench and collapsed there unceremoniously. It was a mess of long limbs and sadness, very different from his feelings earlier that day. Around him, there was no one.

A sardonic chuckle escaped his lips. Of course, alone, like he deserved to be. Every bit of human interaction left him cold and empty inside, always ending in perhaps the worst way possible: silence. Was it worth it anymore? He should just become a recluse, that would be easier.

Then, curled up on the bench, he thought of the smile on Brendon's face. His weak chuckle when Dallon was being a dork. He thought of the warm, proud feeling he got when Brendon realized that his and Ryan's situation wasn't good.

In that moment, though, something else struck Dallon. It was subtle and unexpected.

He thought over the last few days and what he thought he felt for Brendon. He never strictly defined it, it being a fleeting yet powerful pull in his gut. He had never loved someone, so he assumed it was a cruel way of introducing him to it in an unorthodox way. But, no, that was far from the truth.

Brendon's very being didn't cause of a blush of admiration to appear in his face, it was rather the feeling of talking to someone truthfully for the first time in what felt like a life time. Yes, his gaze may have traveled to his lips a few times during the course of when they were talking, but that meant next to nothing. Brendon was an attractive guy and Dallon happened to be gay and single.

It was nothing more than a proximity clause (which happened to come into play often—he seemed to feel fleeting infatuation for many men over his time that usually faded quickly.)

He was just trying to convince himself that maybe he could love Brendon but now it was obvious that this wasn't the case.

It was then that he came to the conclusion while wiggling his toes that he wanted to just be a friend or a protector to Brendon, but not a lover. The word to describe them, lover, left a bitter taste in his mouth, like lemon Sour Patch Kids. Not good. It felt more like it could be a close friendship rather than a partnership.

That thought scared him, to be frank. He thought that he was acting with his heart as a way to finally break free from the chains that wrapped his icy heart. It wasn't that. It wasn't Brendon. He wanted to protect Brendon, he wanted to love him, just not in the way he thought he did. He wasn't in love with him.

He came to this conclusion but another thought that made his stomach drop crossed his mind. Brendon was alone. He was kicked out by his family for being gay and Ryan was all he had. Dallon sucked in a choked cough. He had left him there, too! He was no better than Ryan in that regard.

Dallon pulled his legs up onto the bench, hands linking around his now-exposed hands over his knees. He buried his uncovered head into his body, shaking. It took what felt like hours but eventually, he let himself cry.

It wasn't quiet tears. It was loud, gut-wrenching sobs of a man that had too much happening at once for him to handle properly. His eyes leaked tears at an inhuman rate, dampening his jeans and coat faster than they could freeze. The shakiness of his voice as he called out, "God, why?" was heavily apparent.

He was alone, though, with no one to hear him as he finally broke down. It was cathartic, the release of his emotions occurring after years. He wasn't just crying over what had happened in the past week, it was everything. Every harsh word spat st him by his parents, every "I'm sorry, man, but you have to move out," every pity-filled "I'm here for you," every time he was told that he wasn't enough. Everything.

He rocked back and forth on the bench, not giving a single damn about who saw or heard him. It's not like it mattered. They would move along their merry way, gossiping over the grotesquely sobbing man-child on the bench, the one who lacked control over his emotions. The one that was pathetic.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, sniffing. "I'm sorry."

It wasn't obvious how long he stay there, curled up and crying. The sobs ended after some time, reducing themselves to tears slipping down his slick and gross face. He didn't wipe them away.

Behind him, he could hear the rustling of a jogger or a mom walking with her kid. He froze, not daring to breath of move. He hoped that they would just pass by him and keep to themselves. Even though it was obvious he wasn't okay, he liked to think that he could pull off the guise that he was, no matter how unlikely. People didn't care about him, anyway.

A sob caught in his throat as he heard the person stop moving. It appeared as though they were listening out for him. Without warning, a second later, he felt cold fingers lightly touch the back of his neck, the part that wasn't covered by hair. He jumped, his head shooting up and his neck cracking.

His eyes were impossibly wide as he met the annoyingly caring gaze of one Spencer Smith. He was still dressed up in his jogging gear, and smelled like sweet sweat, though it was quickly drying in the cold air. He was aware of the tears streaming down his face, still.

"Dallon?" Spencer asked, tone soft. He removed his hand from Dallon's neck. Dallon felt his lip quiver despite his attempts to make it stop. "What happened?" Dallon shook his head and buried it back into his knees. He felt Spencer lay a hand on his back and he jerked away.

"S-Spencer p-please l-leave me a-alone. I-I'm o-okay," he sobbed out in a last-ditch attempt to be left alone. Spencer didn't remove his hand. Dallon didn't want him to. "I'm f-f-fine," he mumbled, ignoring the fact that he obviously wasn't fine. He would say he was fine if he was anything short of dying.

"Dallon," Spencer repeated, as soft as before. "Honey—" Dallon internally cringed at the weird pet name, but let it slide, given the current situation. Leave it to Spencer to be the guy who says it to people he barely knows. "—Dallon, you're not okay." He knew that, thank you very much. Look at him!

"I am," Dallon said, but it didn't have as much force as before. He felt Spencer sit heavily next to his shaking form and carefully wrapped his hands around him. Dallon leaned into his side, indulging in the moment of comfort before it was inevitably taken away. He held his breath for a heartbeat.

"You're okay," Spencer mumbled in his ear and that started another wave of tears. It had been so long since someone had said that to him in that one special voice they used for comforting people. "It'll be okay."

Dallon dug his face into Spencer's chest, disregarding the fact that someone might walk by and see them. His entire body was shaky and weak and each breath in (and consequential sob out) felt grating against his throat and lungs. He cried for a long time—longer than he has in a long period of time, snuggled into Spencer's warm embrace—until it was just hiccoughing sobs every minute or so. His breathing slowed as he took deep breaths to regain his composure.

Once he was quiet, his face burned red with embarrassment. The idea of even ever meeting Spencer's kind gaze again made him want go jump off of a building. He his his face in Spencer's chest again. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath brushing over Spencer's coat.

"Don't be," Spencer said. Those lines reminded Dallon of his and Brendon's conversation from just the day before and almost set off a completely new wave of tears, but he managed to cap them off. It took more emotional strength then he though he possessed.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice muffled by Spencer's coat. Spencer rocked him gently. "I'm so weak."

Spencer froze. "You're not weak," he promised. "It's okay to cry. You've had a long week." Dallon roughly shook his head.

"That doesn't excuse it," Dallon muttered. "Why are you here?"

"'Cause I'm not a cruel person. You would do it too, you did it too," Spencer explained. "And that's what friends do." Dallon wasn't sure why but his heart skipped a beat and his throat felt uncomfortably full. Spencer placed a finger under his throat and tipped Dallon's face up so their eyes   
met.

Dallon tried to break it, to look away and fix his gaze elsewhere, but Spencer held it firmly. He has pretty eyes, Dallon thought, in spite of the situation that he was in. They were a swirl of different—dare he say, gorgeous—shades of blue.

The parallels between Spencer and Brendon were becoming more apparent, if not stronger than before. That thought terrified him. "You have pretty eyes," Spencer commented.

"Thanks," Dallon replied, a tad awkward. They held their eye contact and the silence was heavy for a few heart beats.

"Uh..." Spencer trailed off. "Do you want to tell me what's up? Is it with Brendon?"

Dallon nodded hesitantly. "He-He told me that it was my fault that Ryan died, which I guess is true..." He shut his eyes tightly. "It was my fault. He had every right to be angry with me."

"It was not your fault that he died!" Spencer stated hotly. "It was inevitable." He moved to pull away from Dallon to further highlight his point, but Dallon made a slight whining noise involuntarily. He was warm.

"I-It was. I was in too deep." He took a deep breath. "I-I thought I, uh, liked him, you know... but I didn't—I don't. It's different..." Dallon shook his head, face flaming.

Spencer seemed to have a relieved look on his face, which confused Dallon but he didn't take the time to speculate it. "I think I just wanted to protect him," Dallon admitted quietly. "Be the hero I needed in my own teenage slash young adult years."

Spencer didn't reply, only clasped his hands over the back of Dallon's neck. "Are you okay?" Spencer asked once again, this time making sharp eye contact with Dallon.

"I was jealous of Brendon and Ryan's relationship," Dallon said, in lieu of an actual answer to the question. He was on a roll and it felt good to get it off of his chest. Spencer arched an eyebrow, though the worried look remained. "I was jealous not of the abuse, but the love clearly written in Brendon's eyes. I wanted—I want," he corrected, blush spreading over his cheeks, "that. I want someone who will love me unconditionally. It's obvious that that's not going to happen. I don't even know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you could change it."

Spencer didn't respond for a long moment. He migrated his hands from the back of Dallon's neck so they were gripping Dallon's own tightly. Dallon could feel the rough callouses that covered Spencer's hands and idly wondered how he got them. Probably from playing the drums, he thought. He couldn't help but imagine something deeper but then shook his head to drop the thought. No.

"Dallon," Spencer said, more serious than he ever remembered him being, "it'll be okay. I promise. Okay?"

"I...I don't know. Brendon's all alone in the hospital, Spencer, I-I don't know what to do! I got his—abusive, but at least present!—boyfriend killed and his family hates him and—and—"

Dallon was hyperventilating and Spencer cut him off, his voice trying to be soothing. "Shush, shush, it'll be okay. We'll work something out. We'll help Brendon and it'll be okay. I'll help you. You're not alone. Take deep breaths with me, okay? 1... 2... 3... good, good."

"It feels like it," Dallon muttered bitterly. "I've been alone for a long time, Spencer."

"Well, you're not anymore. You've got me, and others if you would just ask! We care about you. I promise you that." Dallon shook his head.

"I don't want their pity." He tried to pull away from Spencer but was held firm again. They were still awkwardly huddled on the park bench, trying to shield themselves from the wind.

"It's not pity," Spencer insisted, leaning down to whisper in his ear over the biting winds. "They truly do care about you."

"How could you care about someone if you barely know them?" Dallon asked, carefully avoiding Spencer's gaze.

"Because," Spencer said, holding Dallon's hands tighter between his own, "they see the good in you. They see your humor, your interests, your kindness. You're a very intriguing person, Dallon Weekes."

"I-I'm not," he spluttered out, embarrassed. "I'm really not."

"You are," Spencer promised, using one icy-tipped finger to gently bop Dallon on the nose. Dallon couldn't help but let a small, if shaky, smile grace his lips. He pulled away from Dallon, leaving the still-shaking man in the bench. Without hesitation, Spencer flung his hand down, and Dallon looked at it curiously before taking the offered appendage.

Once the two men were standing, Spencer snaked his hand down and grasped Dallon's slight larger one. Dallon felt a blooming of warmth spread from their clasped hand and up into where he thoguhrh his heart was.

"What are you doing?" he asked cautiously. As much as Spencer has done for him, this was new territory. Well, besides the time Dallon kissed him, but of course that was entirely by mistake.

"What does it look like?" Spencer returned, turning so he faced Dallon head-on. "I'm showing you that you're intriguing, at least, to me. We'll work the rest out on another day—that's if you want to?" Dallon can hear the sudden self doubt creep into Spencer's lovely—Dallon, stop—baritone voice.

He gave one quick, jerky nod, unable to force any words out.

"Wonderful!" Spencer exclaimed. "Now, back to my place we go!" With that, he began to drag Dallon in the opposite direction and where he knew the dreaded hospital resided.

And Dallon didn't dare complain.


End file.
